


A Perfect Prescription

by thewaythatwerust



Series: Peppermint and Pining [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (kind of), (mentions of) mpreg, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arm Pit Kink But Not Really, Begging, Biological imperatives may be viewed as Dubcon (check Ch6 notes!), Body Hair, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Breeding Kink (kind of but not really), Come Eating, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talking Steve Rogers, Doctor Steve Rogers, Dubious Science, Fuck Or Die, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Heat Sex, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Misunderstandings, Modern Bucky Barnes, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Omega Bucky Barnes, Overstimulation, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Medical Trauma, Pet Names, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Rimming, Rut Sex, Rutting, Scent Marking, Scenting, Shameless Smut, Steve Rogers is Not Captain America, Stucky - Freeform, Top Steve Rogers, artificial knotting, come inflation (kind of maybe)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: Bucky doesn't need artificial knotting; he's gotten by just fine on his own... Until now.His less-than-best laid plans have finally failed him. He knows he's been extremely lucky up until now. With the rarity of alphas these days, it's a twisted, sin-fueled miracle that he has been able to find enough over the years to get by. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew his luck had to give out at some point; he just hadn't expected it to be in the middle of his worst heat ever.~~~Or, the one where Bucky needs medical intervention to manage his heat, but when he finds out his doctor is his hot, alpha neighbor Steve, things get a little complicated. Can the detached & clinical, doctor-patient relationship last? (Spoiler alert: no, no it can't.) Will these two precious, oblivious crumpets ever get it together?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Peppermint and Pining [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774630
Comments: 1207
Kudos: 1822
Collections: Hell Yeah Bottom Bucky, stucky





	1. An Unexpected Complication

**Author's Note:**

> i. This fic contains the same dubious A/B/O science as 'Blood Will Tell' - it was refining the whys/hows for that story that sparked the idea for this one. So, consider this as somewhat of a spoiler warning for those parts of that fic.
> 
> ii. I know I said I wouldn't write smut again for awhile, but... I got bit by a plot bunny, and some of them are pervy little floofballs. 
> 
> iii. Heed the tags. The tags listed are for the story in its entirety, though editing future chapters may cause me to add a few, so please be sure to check before progressing if you have smut allergies. 
> 
> iv. For Bottom Bucky Bingo : Square G3 : Omega Bucky.
> 
> v. I changed the title, sorry. I had a cute idea and just.. you'll get it in the end. Just go with me here. =)

Bucky doesn't need artificial knotting; he's gotten by just fine on his own.

True, he always holds out until it gets unbearable before venturing out to a bar or club without scent blockers, waiting for some randy alpha to come sniffing up on him, before stumbling to the nearest bathroom or back alley to be knotted rough and dirty. There's never any attention paid to what his body _needs_ , just an alpha taking what an alpha _wants..._ as usual _._ But that's fine; it gets the job done — one seeding is enough to keep the sickness at bay.

Until the next time.

Until _this_ time.

His less-than-best laid plans have finally failed him. He knows he's been extremely lucky up until now. With the rarity of alphas these days, it's a twisted, sin-fueled miracle that he has been able to find enough over the years to get by. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew his luck had to give out at some point; he just hadn't expected it to be in the middle of his worst heat ever.

Hunching down lower in his seat, he keeps his gaze trained on the floor. He can feel the other passenger's eyes on him. Mostly, he can tell, it's sympathetic omegas — who can no doubt smell him even through the completely overpriced _Omegaware_ underwear with its patented scent-blocking lining, doing its best to absorb his slick — but he can feel the heavy weight of judgment settling on him from a few disapproving betas, too.

Bucky knows they're thinking he should have walked instead of taking the subway (and he would have if he weren't doubling over in pain from the cramps every five minutes), or he should have taken an Uber (which he couldn't really afford even if a driver would agree to take him in his condition), or that he should have dealt with things before they got this bad (and yeah, okay, so they had a point on that one).

But artificial knotting? A shudder wracks his already trembling body at the thought. It's just so… cold? Desperate? Humiliating.  
  
He grinds his teeth, frustration at the whole situation coiling more tension through his anxious body. The clinic's website had outlined the procedure in a detailed overview with straightforward language, making it sound as routine as a flu shot, but his mind had churned up all kinds of gut-souring imagery to go with the candid words. He'll be rogered by some strange fuck machine and filled with synthetic spunk, before being given a pat on the head and sent on his way by some doddering old fool, who will pat _himself_ on the back for saving one more poor, unbonded omega.

Bucky tucks his chin to his chest, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as another wave of cramps makes his stomach convulse under his loose hoodie. Sweat beads his brow as pain flares, bright and sharp. He squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms more tightly around himself, and holds his breath, keeping count in his head.

...Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

_Thirty-one…_

His flushed skin flashes cold as panic constricts his nerves, sending frantic signals to his brain as the numbers tick higher. The burn of his lungs is a strangely pleasant distraction from the red-hot knife currently twisting his insides into knots. Bucky grimaces. If he weren't currently using his every ounce of willpower to keep from bursting into tears on public transport, he would laugh at the irony; knots in his body, just not in the place he needs.

At fifty-seven, the cramps start to ease, returning his stomach to the continual, dull throbbing that's been his constant companion for over a week now. The damp strands of hair clinging to his face slide over his his skin as he swipes the moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand. He pulls in a slow breath, trying to extinguish the lingering embers of fear. The cramps _never_ last more than thirty seconds. Bucky doesn't need flashing neon lights to know the increase in longevity and severity is not a good sign. He's suddenly extremely grateful his luck held long enough for the clinic to find an emergency appointment for him this afternoon, not sure he would have lasted another day.

The screeching of metal on metal, the brakes engaging, jolts him back to reality and makes his heart drop to his aching stomach — _his stop._ He struggles to his feet with a quiet groan, fighting the blackness pressing in on his vision. Doing his best to move quickly on trembling legs, he makes his way to the exit, his aching muscles protesting the bodies bustling around him, knocking into him as they rush past in both directions. Barely managing to make it to the doors, he slips through just before they slide closed, and pauses a few steps clear, letting the crowd thin. Fighting with his own body is challenge enough, he's in no shape to contend with with dozens more. The train has left, and the station has mostly emptied when he takes the first shaky step toward the stairs, and the inescapable mortification awaiting him two blocks away.

. . .

The clinic is everything and nothing like Bucky has been imagining. Plush looking chairs, outfitted with a thick removable matting — for unavoidable slick accidents, no doubt — are spaced apart enough to allow omegas to avoid the scent of their peers. Bucky winces. That's not going to be much help for the four other omegas already waiting in the room if the way all heads whip in his direction as soon as he walks through the door is any indication.

His humiliation has started early. He hates being right. Ignoring the stinging heat in his cheeks as best he can, he sets his shoulders and makes his way to the self-check-in kiosk by the unmanned reception desk. His reward for entering his details is three soft beeps and a message telling him the estimated wait time is seven minutes.

Bypassing the table piled high with glossy magazines, he lowers himself gingerly into the red chair in the corner — the one with the greatest distance from the other patients as possible. His stomach rolls, pushing bile into his throat. He's not sure it's from the brightly colored posters on the wall extolling the virtues of synthetic spunk and the importance of regular visits to keep your cycles regular, but he's not sure it isn't, either.

"Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky twists toward the voice to find a kind-faced nurse motioning down the nondescript corridor behind her. That... had _not_ been seven minutes. Flustered, he unfolds himself from the chair and makes his way toward her, shakily, and follows her down the hallway. His cramping legs slow his progress, and his knees threaten to send him sprawling to the floor with every step. Just when he's about to call time out, she stops before an unassuming door with a silver nameplate informing him he's about to see a Dr. Rogers. Bucky can't stop the sardonic hitch of his lips. He's going to be rogered by Dr. Rogers. He deserves some kind of prize for being the universe's favorite whipping boy.

The nurse opens the door and Bucky steps through… and instantly wants to turn tail and flee, and take his chances on his own. Standing in front of him is not some doddering old fool, but the hottest guy he's ever seen in his life; the hottest guy he's _been seeing_ around his apartment building for the last month — ever since he had moved onto the floor above Bucky's.

His doctor is his neighbor. His very hot neighbor. His very hot, _Alpha_ neighbor.

_Oh, fuck._

A strangled whimper slips from his lips and his knees finally give out.


	2. Bedside Manner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TW for brief thoughts/discussion about consent, and medical procedures (injection/internal ultrasound).
> 
> i. This idea of sprung from taking my dubious science Omegaverse and putting that in a situation akin to how doctors used to treat 'hysteria' in women, but with an A/B/O twist. I wasn't sure if it was going to work, but I am so happy this idea is resonating with you guys! <3
> 
> ii. Many apologies, but... this is not the porn you were looking for. Initially this started out as a PWP and then I tripped over some plot, and landed in more. (The actual rogering by Rogers shall occur next chapter, pinky swear!) 
> 
> iii. I...have the stirrings of a sequel to this. I can’t delve into _that_ without spoiling the end of _this_ , but since it’s still in a ‘figuring shit out’ phase, I figure I’d ask _/gestures vaguely/_ anyone reading this (that would be interested in a sequel) what your favourite elements/aspects of A.B.O are. Y’know, for Science.  
> _______  
> For Bottom Bucky Bingo, Square I4: First Time

Bucky's ass doesn't hit the ground. 

The room spins around him in a whirlwind of mint and cream as strong arms scoop him up a whisper from the floor and pull him back upright. Bucky isn't sure _how_ Steve went from five feet away to right beside him in less than a second, but with solid heat pressing up against him in all the right places, he doesn't much care. The quick lift to standing has his blood pressure plummeting, and dizziness rolls through him in shuddering waves, curtaining his vision with darkness. Damp hair drags over his face as it falls forward onto the white medical coat before he drops his head to Steve's shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Peppermint tickles his nose, and Bucky barely suppresses a whimper as he tilts his head up, running his nose up the thick column of Steve's neck, breathing in the soothing scent. He knows it's just the blockers working overtime to mask Steve's natural alpha aroma, but instead of a cloying, artificial pungency, the sharp chemical fragrance has mellowed on Steve's skin. Bucky pulls in another deep breath, and this time the soft whimper breaks free. _Candy canes_. Steve smells like candy canes. 

Steve's body goes rigid, and his hands tighten around Bucky's waist, holding him up like he weighs nothing, taking his entire weight easily — which is good because his trembling legs are definitely not up to the task. Heat flashes low in his belly, and he digs frantic fingers into the corded muscles of Steve's arms, needing an anchor, a tether, to keep him from submitting to the perfect storm of _want_ and _need_ raging inside him — to keep from shrugging off Steve's hands, sinking to his knees and presenting to the virile alpha. To stop himself from begging Steve to knot him, hard and deep, right there on the desk until his belly is bloated with the alpha's seed. _Oh, fuck._ His aching ass clenches desperately at the thought. 

"Are you alright?"

If his knees hadn't already given out, Steve's deep voice, a contrast of velvet and gravel rumbling out of his broad chest and feeding into Bucky's, would have done the trick. Dragging his face from the crook of Steve's neck, Bucky pries his lids up and is rewarded with bright blue eyes staring down at him. Even clouded with concern, they're easily the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

Knowing if he opens his mouth right now, he is going to embarrass himself horribly, Bucky can only jerk his head up and down in what he hopes will pass for an affirmative response. Thankfully, his non-verbal communication seems to be on point, because Steve's face brightens with a dazzling flash of white — his smile chasing the clouds from his eyes, making them glow like they're lit from within by the fucking sun itself. Bucky's breath catches in his throat, _yearning_ unraveling deep inside him. 

Warm fingers slide around Bucky's wrist, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, as Steve lifts it and drapes it around his neck. His free hand slides around Bucky's waist, tucking him closer, readjusting his weight, and all but carries him to the chair beside the desk.

Bucky sinks onto the seat gratefully. His weight displaces trapped air with a quiet _hiss_ before the cushion molds itself around the curve of his ass, and oh, wow, that feels _good_ . His lashes flutter closed, and a breathy sigh slips past his lips — this chair is more comfortable than _any_ of the furniture in his apartment… and is probably more expensive than all of it combined. He wiggles discreetly, marveling at the way the cushion shifts with him, readjusting to support his weight. He leans back against the padded backrest, fighting the urge to pull his legs up, drop his head to them, and succumb to his exhaustion — neverending pain and out of control need are hell on a sleep cycle.

"They're amazing, aren't they?" Amusement threads through Steve's voice, and Bucky's eyes fly open to see him now settled into an identical chair — the only things not abiding by the nauseating mint and cream color scheme in the entire room. Bucky's gaze moves from the navy blue cushion rising in gentle swells around Steve's thick thighs (and no, he's not jealous of a chair), to Steve's knee, close enough to his that if Bucky wriggled forward a _just a little_ , they would be touching. He does a quick calculation, mentally weighing the risks and rewards, and he's about to creep forward when Steve's deep voice pins him in place. "Sometimes I'll steal a quick nap on one during my lunch hour. I swear they're more comfortable than my bed."

Bucky squirms and squeezes his thighs together hastily, visions of Steve in bed — sweat-soaked sheets twisting around his naked, glistening body — dance through his mind and leak from his throbbing body. His knuckles bloom white under the pressure of gripping the hard arms of the chair — under the weight of keeping the moan from sliding out of his throat. He risks a quick peek at Steve's face, but if he notices the sudden increase in Bucky's sweating and trembling, he's too polite or professional to let it show.

Blue eyes dip down to the clipboard in his hand, scanning the form attached, before flicking back up, holding Bucky's gaze. "I'm Steve Rogers, and you're James Barnes?"

"I kn— uh, I'm B-Bucky." Cringing at the broken rasp, he drives his teeth into his tongue. He had almost told Steve he knows _exactly_ who he is. 

Bucky had heard the whispers about the hot new alpha in the building for a week before he had finally caught a glimpse of blond hair, tanned skin, and a sweat-damp t-shirt stretched to its limits in the stairwell. It had been another week before he'd heard the soft sighs, full of dreams and desires, falling from the lips of the other omegas — _Steve_. Bucky, on the other hand, had obviously not made such an impression; Steve has no idea who he is. And why would he? Their building — hell, the entire city — is flooded with unbonded omegas. They're a dime a dozen, and Bucky is just another statistic. Just another patient, a name on a printout… a paycheck. He clears his throat, ignoring the dull ache dawning in his chest. "I prefer Bucky."

"Bucky." Steve's smile is quick and warm. "It's nice to meet you."

"I didn't know you were a, ah, um... I mean, have you worked here long?" Bucky presses his lips together tightly, a dam putting an end to his couldn't-be-less-smooth small talk.

The pen Bucky hadn't noticed tucked between Steve's fingers taps gently on the clipboard, the soft _clack, clack, clack_ , a strangely hypnotic balm to his jangled nerves. 

"No. I just recently moved to the city. Almost a—"

"A month ago." The heat in Bucky's cheeks burns brighter, bordering on painful now, as he melts under Steve's adorable little head tilt that has blond strands falling over his forehead. "I, uh... Sorry, that was weird. I'm not, uh — It's just you live in my building. You probably haven't — but I, ah, I've seen you around," Bucky finishes lamely, shrugging helplessly.

"Sugar cookies."

Bucky blinks stupidly at Steve. His brain works sluggishly, struggling to find the thread of connection but comes up empty. "...Sorry?"

"Every Thursday, your apartment smells like sugar cookies. You're a baker, right?" 

"Oh." Bucky can feel his eyebrows inching up to his hairline as he twists his fingers in his lap. Steve _had_ noticed him. Warmth coils in his belly. But, _oh._ Steve knows where he lives. The burning of his cheeks spreads down his neck, and he suddenly regrets the drunken rendition of _Barbie Girl_ he'd belted out while making mini cinnamon rolls at three in the morning last week. "Um, yeah. And you… tap dance?"

Steve's snort of laughter tingles down Bucky's spine. Steve's puzzled brows pull down even as the corners of his lips quirk up. "Why would you think that?"

"The weird tapping noises at night." Bucky flicks his tongue against his teeth, making a series of _thwacking_ noises, trying to imitate the sounds that echo down into his apartment every evening, a few hours after Steve gets home. 

"Ahh." Understanding dawns in Steve's eyes as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, the apples of his cheeks ripening prettily. "I didn't realize you could hear that. It's not dancing — that would involve much more _crashing_ than _tapping_ — it's just me cleaning paintbrushes. I work with oils. The easiest way to clean the bristles is…" Steve mimes beating brushes against his desk and then smiles sheepishly.

So, Steve is a doctor, an artist, smells like candy canes, and can identify sugar cookies by scent alone. Bucky folds his arms across his chest and rubs his palms over his upper arms. He closes the fingers on his left hand, surreptitiously pinching the tender flesh of his inner arm. He winces — definitely not dreaming, then. Steve's blue dress shirt is buttoned to the collar, too high for Bucky to know for sure that his neck is mark-free. He curses under his breath. He should have been more observant when he had been nuzzling there earlier. 

"Is everything okay?" The pen in Steve's hand stills as those bright eyes narrow with concern once more.

"Yeah, I just — _ah!_ " Bucky gasps as his stomach constricts, agony pulsing in time with the violent spasms. Balling his hands into fists, he presses them into his convulsing muscles as hard as he can, like he can punch the pain out. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He leans forward, curling in on himself, bringing his chest to his knees, already counting in his head. 

Steve jolts forward, taking Bucky's hands in his. "Talk to me, what's happening?" 

Bucky just shakes his head, unable to speak. Steve's hand shifts, coming to rest on Bucky's wrist, over his pulse point. The feel of those lightly calloused fingers, with heat enough to rival his own, pressing into his skin makes his pulse race faster for reasons that have nothing to do with pain. 

"Just… cramps," Bucky grinds out between clenched teeth, rocking back and forth gently. He knows he should try and relax, to let the pain flow through him instead of fighting against it, but, _oh, fuck that_. He grunts and tenses his body, bracing against the invisible fist that's squeezing and twisting his insides. 

The feeling of Steve rubbing soothing circles across his lower back makes Bucky jolt. With his eyes drawn tight, he hadn't seen Steve get up and stand behind him, but the firm, pleasing pressure is a lightning rod, drawing his brain's focus away from the pain. Bucky leans forward a little more, giving Steve better access. 

Eighty-four seconds later, the cramps ease, and Bucky — though his body is depleted and strained and sheathed in a sheen of sweat — feels a pang of loss when Steve's hand lifts from his back. 

"Bucky," Steve starts gently, as he lowers himself back into his chair, "do you know the symptoms of extreme A1H-O protein deficiency?"

Bucky leans back in the chair and shakes his head. Truth be told, he doesn't know much about his designation besides the very obvious pitfalls associated with it. In his experience, sex education and other information have always been one-sided, catering to the needs of the alpha, not the omega — something that has only started to shift in the last few years, with the lack of unbonded alphas, the extreme fall in alpha births, and the slow rise of omega rights. 

"I know you've been experiencing cramping, but have you had any severe muscle weakness, fatigue, chills, dizziness, nausea, or vomiting?"

A pit forms in Bucky's belly as he nods slowly.

"Which?"

Bucky can't hold Steve's gaze. He wraps his arms around his waist and stares at the coarse loops of carpet pile at his feet. Who knew carpet came in spearmint? "All of them," he mumbles softly. 

The clacking of the pen against the clipboard starts up again, this time much more rapidly than before, as Steve makes a small noise in the back of his throat. Bucky bristles. It's easy enough for Steve to look down on him, to judge him for letting himself get to this point. Steve's an alpha — all _he_ has to do is stand still for five minutes, and he's probably drowning in opportunities to get his knot wet. Hell, Bucky had been ready and willing in less than one.

The tapping stops as Steve twirls the pen between his fingers. "Bucky, this is not something to play around with. Extreme deficiency can be fatal. You need this protein, just like a diabetic needs insulin. Without it, your body can't function properly, and it will systematically shut down." The pen stills as Steve leans forward and places a hand on Bucky's knee. "It's not fair that being born with an O blood marker means you have to endure this condition where those of us with an A or B blood type don't have to, but it _is_ manageable. Artificial knotting was invented to help omegas, to save lives. You shouldn't feel embarrassed about needing this treatment any more than you would at needing antibiotics to treat an infection."

Bucky drags his eyes up to see Steve staring at him imploringly. God, this would be so much easier if it had been someone else, anyone else, anyone but Steve... or if he had turned out to be an asshole. But the alpha's bedside manner is on point, and Bucky can feel some of his humiliation dissolving under Steve's earnest pleas. He nods again, but this time his lips tilt up with a small, tight smile. "Okay." 

"Good." The smile Steve rewards him with is breathtaking. "Since this is your first visit to the clinic, I need to get some information. But before we start, this and then the procedure will take some time, do you need to tell your driver to wait, or to come back later?"

"My driver?"

"Friend, family, uber driver, or… partner? Whoever brought you in today."

"Oh, no. I took the subway."

Steve's eyebrows dart up before he tugs them back down, and signals his understanding with a single, sharp nod. He stares down at the paper, though Bucky can tell from the unfocused eyes and the muscle ticking over his clenched jaw that he's not paying attention to it in the least. A heaviness presses on Bucky, and the sense of condemnation he'd felt from the betas on the train settles over him again. He grinds his teeth together, biting back the churlish remark that is clawing its way up his throat. 

He feels like a pendulum, swinging back and forth between frustration and desire, his heat-hot blood rushing from his head to his loins in a neverending loop that's driving him mad.

The deep breath Steve pulls in makes his already impressive chest swell, and Bucky's irritation deflates quicker than a souffle, replaced with fiery longing. He wants to feel that broad chest crushing against his back, pinning him down as Steve drives his hips forward, thrusting into him, making him wail, making him come. Bucky bites at his lip urgently as he creams his underwear a little more — now so wet he can feel his slick starting to seep out the leg bands and trickle down his thighs. 

"—Bucky?"

"Uh, sorry." Bucky shakes his head, trying to clear the images — the fantasies he'll be getting off to later — and attempts a smile. It feels more like a grimace, but it's the best he can muster. "Could you repeat that?"

"I asked if you've had this procedure before?"

"Oh, no. This is my first time. Uh, with the machine, I mean, not my _first_ first time," Bucky stammers. 

"And how have you managed without it so far?"

"The, um, the _natural_ way."

"Are you bonded?" There's an edge to Steve's voice before he clears it. "Or were you previously?"

Bucky shakes his head. 

"So just through casual encounters?"

Bucky feels like he's playing a mute game of _Hot or Cold?_ He nods. 

"And before your partners seeded you, did they sample --?" 

Burning heat floods Bucky's face, and he shakes his head again. "I don't see why any of this is important. I got by fine; I made do, but now..." Bucky stares defiantly at Steve, annoyance at the prying into his private life rises above his omega inclinations. "Now, I can't. So I'm here."

Steve makes a small note on the form before leaning back in his chair, not recoiling from Bucky's anger, but giving him space to express it. The thoughtful, very un-alpha action knocks the wind, and the fight, right out of him. 

"I'm sorry, I know these questions are confronting and can be embarrassing, but having a detailed history helps me better understand the degree of exposure over an extended period of time, and will help me make a more informed treatment plan."

"Treatment plan? I thought this is a 'one and done' type deal."

"Usually it is, only one seeding per heat required, but based on what you've told me, from your infrequent and incomplete encounters, I don't think your body has ever been at optimal levels. I'm not even sure it's even been at _safe_ levels. I'd like to do an ultrasound before we start the procedure, just to check there are no abnormalities. Aside from general health concerns, if becoming pregnant is ever something you might consider in the future, I'd like to check that prolonged deficiency hasn't caused any complications." 

_Pregnant._ Bucky had never really been in a stable or long-term relationship before, so kids hadn't really been something he'd given much thought to. But something strange stirs deep in his gut, and he suddenly realizes he wants the _choice._ Maybe one day he'll decide he wouldn't mind having a little dark-haired pup in his life, covered in icing sugar, baking cupcakes together in his too-small kitchen for the first day of school. _And where the fuck did that come from?_ Bucky blinks away the too-clear-for-comfort image from in front of his eyes. "Uh, yeah, that's fine."

"Great. We'll pop you up on the exam table and take a look. I'd like to do a transanal scan if that's okay with you? It's an internal scan, so it's an invasive method, but it will help me get a much better picture of what's going on." Steve leans forward, clasping his hands between his knees. "I will talk you through everything I'm going to do before I do it, and if at any time you need to take a break or stop, you just tell me. _You_ are the one in control here, and we don't have to do anything you aren't comfortable with, okay?"

Bucky draws a deep breath before pushing out his anxiety in a low, slow breath. "Okay."

Steve stands and motions toward the exam table in the center of the room. "Are you okay to walk?" 

"I think so." Bucky rises from his chair and starts toward the table on shaky legs. He's grateful when Steve's hand glides under his elbow, offering gentle support, even though it makes his legs tremble a little more. At the exam table, Steve's hand falls away, and he gestures to the objects arranged on the mint green mat draped over it. 

"Get undressed and put the gown on, it closes at the back. There's a selection of condoms to choose from to help mitigate mess later. Your chart didn't note any allergies, but there are latex-free options if you need them." He nods to the small white box resting atop of the gown. "The bag is there for any biowaste you'd like to dispose of — pads, underwear, and so forth. Replacements will be made available to you after your procedure. You can leave your clothes on the chair if you'd like. Once you're ready, just hop onto the table, scoot down to the end, and place your feet in the stirrups. I'll be right out here, so give me a shout when you're ready, and we'll get started."

The metal rings on the track above the bed scrape noisily as Steve draws the curtain around the table. 

Bucky eyes the gown on the table distastefully. Pale mint is _not_ his color. The soft fabric of his hoodie sweeps over his skin like a farewell kiss as he pulls it off, morosely. Why can't he keep it on? Lose the jeans, sure, but the hoodie? It's had his bodily fluids on it plenty of times and survived no worse for wear. Don't doctors know come washes out just fine in a regular cold water cycle? He toes off his boots, thankful for his forethought to forgo socks, and drags his jeans down his legs before rolling them up with his hoodie and propping the bundle on the chair beside the exam table as instructed. 

The stark white _Omegaware_ is the only scrap of fabric left on him, and he tugs them down carefully. The underwear has absorbed their weight in his slick many times over, and the soft squishing noise as he peels them off is amplified in his burning ears. 

He slides the disposable underwear into the opaque bag, plain but for the _Warning: Biological Waste_ sign printed in black and yellow across the front. He folds down the top of the pouch before crunching it together for good measure. He's not sure where it's supposed to go, and after a glance around his mint-bubble, he gives up and props it beside his clothes on the chair. 

Bucky turns back to the table, and thumbs open the white box. Foil packages peek out at him like contraceptive confetti. Reaching into the box, he snags one at random, tears the packet, and slides the contents free. _To mitigate mess later_ , Steve had said. Bucky looks down at his cock — achingly hard, curving up to his belly, already coated with a thick layer of precome — and frowns. He's a mess right _now_. 

Pinching the tip of the condom, he slides it over the leaking head and rolls it down his shaft, gritting his teeth against the sparks of pleasure shadowing his movements. He grips the base of his cock and squeezes tightly; the desire to fuck his fist and fill the condom now, with Steve standing just a few feet away, is almost too much to resist. Would Steve come in if he heard him moaning? Would he lend a hand? Heat grows wetly between his thighs. The scent of his own arousal wafting from between his cheeks floods the room. He cringes. _Fuck._ He hated scent-barrier pills, they turned his stomach and gave him terrible headaches, but he should have braved them today.

"Do you need a hand with anything?" Steve's voice comes from directly behind him, and Bucky almost jolts forward onto the bed.

"Uh, I'm good," Bucky squeaks before clearing his throat. He grabs the torn condom wrapper from the bed and tosses it back in the box, looks at it, then plucks it back out again. Jesus. Holding the packet between pinched fingers, he spins on the spot, but the only trash bins in the room are outside the curtain. He moves to the chair and untangles his roll of clothes enough to expose a pocket in his jeans. He shoves the wrapper into it and straightens before grabbing the white box and nudging it into the small available space still left on the chair. 

That leaves only the gown. The strange paper-plastic hybrid fabric clings to his body like it possesses some static-charge that draws it to skin, which isn't a good look where it tents obscenely at his groin. Closing his eyes, he tries desperately to think unsexy thoughts — wet dog smell, the dirty dishes waiting for him in the sink at home, that time he got his balls caught in his jeans zipper. The last one has him wilting slightly, until Steve's deep voices sounds again.

"Let me know when you're ready."

He winces as the gown pushes out a little further from his body. "Ah, almost." He ties the long strings at the back in a floppy bow and scrambles on to the table. The spongy mat on the table clutches at the gown, snagging it, causing it to pull and gape as he wriggles down to the end of the bed. The feeling of his bare ass rubbing against the roughened texture makes him want to sit up and rut against it, spread his cheeks, and feel the amazing friction rasp against his hole. 

"The pad under you is a miracle of engineering, the latest development in _Omats_ from Stark Industries. They're super lightweight and incredibly absorbent. They seem to ease the minds of omegas stressed about making a mess," Steve calls out as if he can read Bucky's mind. 

Bucky swallows roughly as he drags his body down the rest of the way, hoping fervently that Steve _can't_ read minds, or he is so fucked. He places his feet on the end of the bed, letting the gown stretch up to cover his knees in a steep angle that keeps it from clinging to his dick. "Okay," Bucky calls in a voice that, thankfully, isn't nearly half as shaky as he feels. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Even though there's little more skin on display than five minutes ago, Bucky feels much too exposed when the curtain sweeps open with a screech of metal rings, all fighting to move at once. He squirms and crisscrosses his arms over his body as Steve wheels a compact trolley toward him, topped with a portable ultrasound machine. 

Anxiety bubbles in his belly, frothing and fizzing, threatening to spill into his throat. He startles when a large hand wraps around his ankle and guides it away from its position tucked against his ass with firm but gentle pressure. Bucky's confusion quickly gives way to mortification as Steve straightens his leg, lifts it, and places his foot into an empty stirrup at the end of the bed. 

"Sorry," Bucky mumbles as Steve repeats the action on his other leg. The gown, now free from its position stretched over his knees, flutters down to drape over this body like a second skin, putting the hard line of his erection, lying against his belly, clearly on display. His fingers itch with the desire to reach up and reposition the gown, to lift it from his body, but that would only serve to draw more attention, so Bucky curls his hands into fists at his side, and scrubs his knuckles over the roughened mat beneath him, letting the tactile sensations distract and soothe him.

Steve places a hand on Bucky's arm, it's perfunctory contact, gentle yet impersonal, but Bucky can't stop the full body tremor that shivers through him at the touch.

"This is completely your choice, but with your consent, I'd like to administer a temporary, injectable scent-blocker. It lasts for roughly eight hours, and given the stage of your cycle and the potency of your scent, I think it would be a good idea for your safety." Steve's lips twitch as he gives Bucky's arm a gentle squeeze. "It would also be a kindness for any alphas in a twenty-mile radius, but that's a very distant, secondary concern." 

Bucky's eyes flick down to Steve's pants of their own accord, wondering if his own painfully obvious arousal is making _this_ particular alpha uncomfortable. The thought that he could have any effect on Steve, no matter how minute, swells a deep, biological pride inside him.

"Bucky?"

"Uh. Yeah, that's okay."

Bucky glances at the trolley and surprise streaks through him. He'd expected to find a syringe already prepared — expecting Steve to push the point, or disregard his answer entirely if he'd said _no_. But Steve just smiles that bone-melting smile and heads back to the bank of cupboards that house the supplies. 

It takes a moment for Bucky to put thoughts to the unfamiliar, warm feeling soaking through him, like honey, ambling through his veins. Steve hadn't been lying when he'd said that Bucky is in control. It's a new and strange experience for him, to have an alpha stand by their word, to mean what they say; stranger still for an alpha to respect his decisions, to respect _him_. 

Bucky's eyes linger on the muscles of Steve's broad back, watching them shift gracefully under the white coat as he readies the injection. A realization, intangible yet undeniable, cements itself in Bucky's mind: Steve Rogers is not like any other alpha he's ever met. Though having just met him today, Bucky is certain that Steve is the one alpha he will come to measure all others against. And somehow, he's just as sure that none will ever come close. 

Steve strides back to the bed, a rectangular-shaped container in his hand. He places it on the edge of the bed, and Bucky can't stop his eyes from dipping down and then widening at the giant syringe inside. 

"It's not as bad as it looks," Steve grins at him, tearing open the alcohol swab packet. Bucky opens his mouth to contradict him — because the needle is longer than his arm is thick and there's no way it's not going to be worse than it looks — but Steve's hands, encased now in blue gloves, are sliding up his arm, pushing the gown to his shoulder, and every word he's ever learned forsakes him. 

Steve slides the wipe over his upper arm, cold against his heated skin. The stinging, sterile odor bites at his sensitive nose, and he pulls in a short breath through his mouth, instead. 

"You're going to feel a sharp scratch and then a little heat. Just take slow, deep breaths, and it'll be over before you know it."

Bucky nods and turns his eyes away, unable to watch, not entirely sure the needle won't pierce one side of his arm and pop out the other. Following orders, he draws in a long, slow breath, and waits. The sharp sting makes him wince, but Steve's right, it isn't as bad as he's expecting. Almost immediately, the heat starts at the injection site and spreads out, a tingling sensation like pins and needles — not painful, but not pleasant. 

"Is there a reason you don't use blockers? I understand why you would choose to abstain at home even if there are still risks attached, but venturing out in public without them, especially in the middle of a heat, can be dangerous. While there may not be many alphas around, there are still some that adhere to old world views."

The pins and needles expand out under Bucky's skin as revulsion rolls his stomach. In his experience, _some_ is an understatement, and _old world views_ is just a polite way to say alphas believe an omega's heat is literally them asking for it, and the only form of consent required. He bites back his bitter diatribe. No good getting riled up over things he can't control. "They make me sick. The tablets, at least." 

"And how are you faring with the injection? Any reaction?"

Bucky takes a moment to run a quick mental assessment before shaking his head. "So far, so good."

Steve withdraws the needle slowly, the second sharp sting giving way to firm pressure as Steve holds something soft to his arm. "Injectables can't be prescribed for home use, but you're welcome to visit the clinic to get them, or, I could, ah..." Steve trails off, and Bucky hears another packet ripping. He turns back in time to see Steve lift the cotton ball from the small puncture mark and replace it with a dark blue bandaid before resting his hand atop it. "I'm happy to administer them to you at home if you'd like," he finishes, his words rushing out together.

The heat where Steve's hand is laying over Bucky's arm is like a signal flare, drawing his attention and sending a halo of warmth spiraling outward. "Uh, I didn't know the clinic offered house calls. I don't think I could afford it." Bucky cringes inwardly. The last thing he needs is for Steve to think he's a pathetic, _penniless,_ unbonded omega.

"The clinic doesn't, but…" Steve shrugs, his hand finally lifting as he reaches up to roll the gown sleeve down. "I pass your door every day on the way to mine, so it's not exactly out of my way. As for payment, how about you sneak me a little of your sugar, and we'll call it even."

With his legs raised and parted, the new stream of slick Steve's words bring slides wetly down his ass crack and drips onto the mat. "M-my sugar?" 

Steve nods as he gathers up the used supplies, pops them into the container, and turns away. "Some of your sugar cookies. They smell amazing," he calls over his shoulder. He empties the contents of the dish into the yellow and black bio-waste bin, and his gloves follow quickly after. "I know I shouldn't say this, being a doctor and all," he murmurs conspiratorially, pulling a new set of gloves from the dispenser on the wall. He tugs them on with a _snap_ , the sound bolting through Bucky's nerves like a flash of static. "...but I have a bit of a sweet tooth." 

Suddenly, Bucky is regretting giving his consent for the ultrasound. Lust, intense and visceral, rushes through him, and it's all he can do not to thrust up into nothingness and beg Steve to fuck him - with his cock, with the machine, he doesn't care, he just _needs_ a knot. He leaks wetly onto the mat.

As Steve lifts an attachment from the drawer under the ultrasound, apprehension washes cold water through his desire-addled brain. He blanches. The wand is not particularly thick, but it's longer than Steve's forearm. Bucky's had big before, of course — alphas tend to be on the _very well endowed_ side of the anatomy scale — but he's not had _that_ big, and not hard, unyielding plastic. 

Steve unrolls something with more than a passing resemblance to a condom over the long device, smiling knowingly at Bucky's grimace. "It's never as bad as you're expecting. You shouldn't feel any pain at all, but if you have discomfort or you just want me to stop, just say the word."

"What's the word?"

Steve gives him a look before placing his free hand on Bucky's and leans forward. " _Stop_ . It's all you _ever_ have to say." Steve's thumb rubs over Bucky's hand, and _oh, god, how is he so perfect?_

Steve nods to the one-sheet sized anatomical poster on the wall beside the table. The cheerfully colored rendering is so helpfully titled _The Male Omega Reproductive System_. 

"I'm going to insert this wand into your anus and up the birth canal into your womb. Some omegas find themselves getting aroused and get embarrassed. I wish they wouldn't. To be frank, with male omegas, the more aroused you are, the smoother the procedure goes."

There is something so mortifying about having Steve speak about his body in a clinically detached way. Not that it stops the tips of Bucky's cock from throbbing under the gown. 

"Sexual arousal engorges the tissues of your reproductive tract, and that dilation forces the passageway to your intestines to constrict, lets your body switch gears. The twin channels aren't designed to work at the same time, much like urination and ejaculation cannot occur simultaneously." 

Bucky finds the referenced anatomy on the poster easily, thanks in no small part to the helpful labels scattered across the glossy surface — from foreskin to ejaculate gland, nothing has been overlooked. His eyes trace the branching pathways from the anus on the poster as he listens to Steve pressing buttons on the machine. 

"Arousal also prompts your body to produce more lubrication," Steve continues, "which is never a bad thing where object insertion is involved." He places his hand back on Bucky's forearm. "Any questions or concerns before we begin?"

Bucky drags his eyes back to Steve's and shakes his head. "All good."

Steve's hand remains on his arm as the other disappears between the stretched V of the gown covering his thighs. The wand nudges against his ass as Steve navigates it blindly toward his target, and Bucky can't stop the small gasp when Steve hits bullseye. With the tip of the wand barely inside him, Steve stills and turns to him, his face softly illuminated by the screen.

"Is this okay? Does it hurt?"

"Uh, no, it's f-fine." 

There's another gentle squeeze to his arm before the wand is pushing in deeper. Bucky's so wet it slides in easily, but Steve goes slowly - agonizingly slowly, the gradual drag scraping against his insides, making his breath come a little faster.

Bucky doesn't own any toys — he prefers to get himself off with his fingers, or, if he's desperate, whatever large, hard fresh produce is in his refrigerator — but as the wand bumps up against his prostate, he can't bite back the moan or stop his hips twitching up, and he makes a mental note to invest in some plastic playthings.

"Just one more minute." There's a gentle pressure on his hip, an encouraging squeeze, and then it's gone, and Steve is turning knobs and pressing buttons, focused intently on the small screen. 

The monochrome display is filled with a grainy image, like blurred static, with streaks and patches of light and dark that Bucky cannot make head nor tail of. Steve's expression is just as unreadable, so Bucky lets his lashes flutter closed once more and focuses on the one thing that is uncomplicated and undeniable — Steve's arm shifting between his thighs. 

Bucky bites his lip tersely, clenching his calves and curling his toes, fighting to stave off the orgasm he can feel building low in his belly. With Steve's every movement, switching angles, and adjusting the depth, the wand rubs over his sensitive rim — now a quivering, sticky mess of pure _need_ , aching, trying frantically to clench down on the thin rod, searching desperately for a knot. 

The pleasure in his belly grows heavy, and Bucky's breath pushes from his mouth in shallow huffs. _Just ten more seconds, just hang on for ten more seconds..._

"All done," Steve says brightly, dragging the wand out of him with the same agonizingly slow pace as he'd inserted it. "That was perfect. You did great, Bucky," Steve murmurs, making Bucky throb at the praise just as the wand tip slides free on a flood of slick, leaving him empty and aching once more. 

"Everything looks good; there's no abnormalities, masses, or scarring. If you decide you want children later, you should have no problems conceiving." 

Too caught up in the _now_ to worry about _later,_ Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, nodding his understanding as he tries to get his body under control. The sounds of Steve stripping off gloves and disposing of waste, the slight squeak of the wheel as he moves the trolley away, and the soft tune he hums under his breath all dance around the edges of his consciousness, slowly pulling him back from the brink.

Bucky feels Steve's presence at his side before he drags his eyes open. The overhead lights cast a warm halo around his golden hair, and those brilliant blue eyes... It could be the lingering haze of the barely thwarted orgasm, but they look stormier than before — darker, black edging out the blue. Bucky wonders how dark they'd be staring up at him while he rides Steve's cock, begging him for his knot. The image has his own cock jerking on his belly, making the gown twitch. 

Steve's eyes dart to the gown before flicking back up to Bucky's face. He places his hand on Bucky's hip, tantalizingly close to his cock, and gives another squeeze, firmer than before. "You're doing great. We're almost done, and this last part is the easiest. Are you ready?"

Bucky's heart stutters in his chest before picking up pace, thumping so hard he's sure Steve must be able to hear it. _Is he ready?_ The answer flashes through his mind immediately. _Not in the least._ Nothing today had happened how he had been expecting, and not least of all because of the alpha towering over him. The unexpected complication of Steve being his doctor may actually kill him before his heat does. 

Bucky focuses on the warm weight of Steve's hand on him instead of what comes next. He grimaces. _He_ is what comes next. Bucky pulls in a deep breath, willing his racing heart to slow. The quicker he comes, the sooner he can go. He notches his chin higher and locks eyes with Steve.

"Ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!~ 
> 
> I love interaction with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussiony up in here! (Or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust).


	3. A Pound Of Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. This chapter got long. Please, make a nest, settle down, and hold on to your butts...

“ _Arousal fluid?_ ” Bucky can actually feel the waves of heat rising from his skin.

Steve’s smile is warm and wide and spills over into his eyes, making them dance with mirth. “Sorry, technical terms kind of come with the territory. I can use colloquialisms if you’d prefer. Does _slick_ make you more comfortable?”

Bucky throbs under his gown. He wants to groan that no, hearing _that word_ on _those lips_ makes him very, very _un_ comfortable. In fact, he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t come soon, his dick may explode from the pressure. But he just shakes his head, feeling his dark locks scrub against the table, and he knows he’s going to look a complete mess when he’s limping out of here, later. “No, it’s fine,” he grinds out from behind clenched teeth.

Steve ducks his head as he fiddles with the new device in his hands — this one much more manageable looking: six inches, a rounded rectangular shape — and when he lifts his head again, the only traces of his smile are shining out from those beautiful ocean eyes. “As I was saying, this will measure the level of deficiency from your arousal fluid.” Steve’s lips twitch as Bucky grimaces but remains silent. “The reader is connected to the machine through those wires.” Steve nods toward the three black wires twisted together, running from the end of the device in his hand to a compact, boxy-looking machine now situated between Bucky’s thighs, almost hidden from view by his gown. “It will automatically calculate how much A1H-O your body needs.”

“How long does it take?”

“Sixty seconds at the most.”

Well, that’s do-able. “Okay.”

The white coat-clad arm disappears under the gown again, only this time Bucky's prepared for the gentle nudge, the prodding as Steve finds his target. The slow glide is nothing but another tease, setting Bucky's ass fluttering hopefully. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. _'Don’t be embarrassed,'_ Steve had said. Logically, he knows needing this procedure is down to a biological imperative he has no control over — Bucky gets it, even if he loathes it. _That_ is a frustration, not a humiliation. But the actual procedure itself? This is mortifying as fuck.

The whisper of the thick cotton brushing against his inner thigh as Steve maneuvers the object inside him sends delicious tingles streaking north to his cock. But what the hell is taking so long? He’s literally dripping with slick; he can feel it running down his ass onto the mat. Steve could have just swiped a sample from his skin or soaked it from the mat and been done with it. He’s got to be _flooding_ the magic wand within him — it should have taken six seconds, not sixty. Unless... Oh, shit. His chest starts rising and falling a little quicker as panic bubbles in his gut and feeds up into his heart. _Electronics and liquid don’t mix_. What if he’s _too_ wet? What if he’s broken it? What if —

Three high pitched beeps cut through his anxiety, and Steve starts the slow drag from his body.

Bucky inahles slowly, extinguishing the embers of panic as he opens his eyes to watch Steve unhook the device, and move to place it onto a tray waiting on the bench that stretches the length of the wall, before coming back to the table and peering down at the machine. In profile, Steve is just as breathtaking as front on, but the way his brows crease and his lips press into a tight seam as he stares down at the small LCD ruins the effect slightly. Bucky can’t read what the screen says, but he’s pretty sure the flashing red isn’t a good sign.

“Your levels are dangerously low. I think the safest thing to do is to transfer you to the hospital. I’d like to run more tests and make sure your body —”

“I’m not going to hospital.”

“You may need more help than I can provide here, Bucky. I’ve never seen readings like this, _ever_.”

“But... you'll _try_ , right? You can try the machine and see if it works?”

Steve hesitates. “I’d feel much more comfortable if we admitted you—”

“ _No._ That isn’t an option. I’m not — I _can’t..._ ” The heavy thud of his heart crashing against his ribs is mirrored in his head, but isn’t enough to drown out the hysteria, roaring like white noise, erupting in his mind. Hospitals equal fear and torment and pain: he’ll never step foot inside one. _Not again._

“Bucky, this machine was made for regular use. The A1H-O protein is a concentrated version of its natural counterpart, but it was created to fulfill an omega’s needs for a _single heat_. With your levels, you’re going to need an incredibly high dose, and the only way to do that is multiple seedings. The machine just wasn’t designed to administer such a large amount in one go.”

“That’s fine. I don’t care. How many will I need?”

The rough sound of Steve clearing his throat rasps over Bucky’s nerves. “Ah... ten.”

“ _Ten?_ ” Bucky splutters. Well, this is one for the books — and they’ll probably _put_ him in some kind of medical textbook: a cautionary tale of what happens when you snub your nose at science. “I — okay. So, is that... one a day for the next ten days, or... ?”

Steve winces. “No. You need the protein as quickly as possible, but it’s a balancing act. Too much too quickly can put excessive strain on your body, but if we give it to you too slowly, your body may shut down before it gets enough to bring up your numbers. You, uh, you'll need three doses today, three tomorrow and two for each two days following.”

Bucky can feel the blood draining from his face, taking the searing heat with it. For the first time since he arrived at the clinic, he feels cold, though it’s nothing to do with the air conditioning. He rubs his hands over his arms, ignoring the goosebumps rising under his palms. _Three._ Today. _Now._ He nods slowly. His only other choice is... is no choice at all. He can do this; he’s made it through worse, he'll make it through this. “Okay.”

“Bucky, this may be uncomfortable for you if you’re not used to complete knottings. The machine is designed to be quick, efficient — direct stimulation of your prostate gland to trigger an orgasm. It’s intended to be used once per heat, not three times in a row. The over-sensitization is likely to cause pain. It might be better, kinder to you and _safer_ , to admit you to hospital. They can put you under general anesthetic and—”

“ _No,_ ” Bucky bites out, pushing up on his elbows, leaning toward Steve. “I don’t care if it’s not made for this, or if it hurts, I am _not_ going to the hospital. If you don’t want to do this, fine, tell me, and I’ll take my chances on the street, but I am not being admitted. I’m not going, I’m not— “ Panic constricts his throat as he blinks wetly.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Steve moves up the bed and places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, not pushing him down but grounding him. Steve’s voice is low and soothing. “It’s alright; we can do it here, I can do it here for you.” Steve’s other hand finds Bucky’s, his large fingers nudge Bucky’s apart, making space before curling down, locking them together. “It’s okay, Bucky. I just don’t want you to — I don’t want to hurt you.”

Bucky can feel his heart slowing, Steve's hand an anchor, steadying him as the panic ebbs away. “You said I need this. Three today or I could die, right?”

Steve’s lips twist together grimly as he nods. “Yes.”

“Then I want you to do it. All three, today. No matter what. If I pass out, keep going. I’ll sign a form or whatever you—”

“I _can’t—_ ”

“If you can’t do it, I will understand... but _I_ can’t go to hospital. I _won’t_. I’ll just have to try my luck at finding an alpha myself.”

“ _Bucky..._ ”

“No. I mean it. If you agree to do this, you do it until it’s done. No hospitals. _Promise me_ , Steve.”

Bucky knows the weight of what he’s asking, and guilt pools in his belly as he watches it settle over Steve: the strong jaw squaring off as it clenches tight, dark brows pressing deep lines into smooth skin, and bright eyes dulling with anguish. Bucky holds his breath, waiting, hoping for a yes... expecting a no.

The sun has set a thousand times over in Bucky’s heart before Steve finally nods. “Okay.”

Bucky’s lungs fill quickly, his head swimming at the sudden intake of oxygen as much as the tidal wave of relief flooding through him. “Say it.”

“I promise.”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand. “Thank you.”

Steve stares down at him and gives him a small, tight smile before his hand slips free. “I doubt you’ll be thanking me later.”

The contradiction of begging for the procedure he’d put it off for so long it almost killed him isn’t lost on Bucky, but he pushes the thought from his mind as he focuses on Steve. The seductive aura of ease and charm has disappeared, now replaced with simmering tension, and suddenly Steve looks every inch the imposing alpha. His movements are strong but stiff as he strides back to the machine, and Bucky watches the powerful display with a keen eye, but his attention turns on a dime when Steve lifts a new object into view.

The new device is... well, it’s a dildo. Bucky tries to keep his face neutral. The flared head gives way to a smooth silicone shaft that has a ripple of extra material at the base, and while not intimidatingly long, it is very, very thick. The prickling heat of his basal instinct flares inside him, chasing away the ice of anxiety, and his hole clenches around thin air in anticipation; _finally._

Steve raises a large glass vial with his free hand and slots it into the top of the machine. “Your orgasm will cause the knot to inflate and lock in place, which will trigger the transfer of the protein. Ordinarily, the machine will release the required amount quickly, over three to five minutes. But, with how depleted your body is, I don’t want you to go into shock with a quick release, so I’m going to set it to a slow infusion protocol. It will take an hour to complete the seeding, but it’s the best chance your body has of absorbing the protein completely and safely. Usually, I would then place a plug in you for a couple of hours, but in this case,” Steve pulls in a quick breath but blows it out slowly, “we’ll repeat the process twice more before that.”

Bucky channels his gratitude toward his lips, quirking one side up, wanting to reassure Steve for a change. “Sounds good.”

“You can tell me to stop at any time if it’s too much or you change your mind, alright?”

“I know.” Bucky also knows he won’t change his mind, but doesn’t want Steve to change his, either.

“For this part of the procedure, I’m going to have to lift your gown for ease of access. Is that okay?”

Not trusting his voice, Bucky just nods jerkily. Steve’s hands on his thighs sends a spiraling shiver expanding through his body, and he clamps his lip between his teeth to trap the pitiful whimper in his throat. The large, warm hands move slowly, pushing the gown up his thighs until his ass is fully exposed, and his cock is only half-covered. Heat steals across his skin, flames fanned by the thought of Steve’s eyes claiming the most intimate parts of him, the thought of Steve seeing exactly what effect he has on Bucky's body.

“This part can be a little uncomfortable,” Steve says as he presses the dildo against Bucky’s rim. “Studies have shown that a large girth stretching the anus paired with direct, vigorous prostate stimulation is the most effective path to orgasm for most male omegas.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as his cock twitches, and he silently thanks the universe for the fact the gown still hides the head of his dick so Steve can’t see the mess his words are making on Bucky's skin.

“Take a deep breath for me.”

As Bucky follows Steve's instructions, the gentle nudge gives way to unyielding pressure — the fat head of the cock forcing inside him — and his lungs empty with a grunt.

“That’s the worst part over. You’re doing great. We’ll just wait a minute to let your body adjust.”

After so long _wanting_ , finally having what his body has been craving, shatters his shame to dust. “No, no waiting. I need _more_ , please,” Bucky begs quietly. “ _Now_.”

There’s a single beat of hesitation before Steve complies, pushing the rest of the dildo into him with one long, strong thrust. Bucky whimpers and fists the gown tightly, bearing down against the fake cock — the aching emptiness inside him finally easing.

“Now I just need to get the right angle for it to hit your —”

“ _Ahh!_ ” Bucky’s hips jerk off the table as the head of the silicone cock rubs against his prostate.

“Nevermind,’ Steve laughs softly under his breath.

The scent of peppermint permeates the short, sharp breaths Bucky draws in through his nose as the stimulation continues. He strains forward, craning his neck off the table to see Steve attaching the end of the dildo to a metal pole extending out from the machine. It snaps into place with a loud _click_.

“Okay, we’re all set. I’ll only ask you one more time — are you _sure_ this is what you want?”

“Mmhmm, I’m sure” Bucky pants, his focus still trained on the fake cock prodding his prostate.

Steve nods once and presses a button on the machine. A quiet electronic hum fills the air before the dildo eases into motion. It glides back slowly, inch by inch, until the flared head catches on Bucky’s rim, tugging at the sensitive skin but stays locked inside him. Barely a breath passes before it’s pushing forward, filling the yawning emptiness until it rubs up against his prostate once more.

He bites off the moan and squeezes his eyes shut. The machine is unrelenting. Each thrust picks up pace and power until the dildo is fucking into him, fast and hard, hammering at his prostate before pulling back, making his greedy, sloppy hole strain and clutch at the head as it bulges against his rim from the inside.

Bucky can’t stop his hips from twitching off the bed, trying to fuck back onto the machine, needing more, chasing the knot. Steve’s hand squeezing his hip makes him arch up higher, but Steve just pushes down, keeping him on the table, making his cock throb and spit more precome into its latex sheath. He chokes back the strangled moan and clenches his jaw. He can't lose control in front of Steve. Needing to come is one thing, begging for it is another.

“It’s okay to make noise; these rooms are soundproof.” Steve murmurs just as the machine hammers at Bucky’s prostate again.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Bucky tries to angle his hips up, but the steady hand keeps him in place.

“You need to tell me if it causes pain, and I can readjust.”

Steve’s voice sounds breathless, but that may just be the roaring of blood pounding in Bucky's ears distorting it. “Uh, it’s fine,” Bucky lies through his teeth. It feels better than fine, If feels fucking _amazing._ He wants to grip his cock and jerk himself in time with the thrusts, milk himself as the machine punches at his prostate... but Steve is right there, looking down at him, hand on his hip, murmuring encouragement in that deep, smooth voice that has his cock drooling uncontrollably into the condom, leaking almost as much as his ass.

 _This shouldn’t be so arousing._ Bucky didn’t realize he's into exhibitionism, but as Steve’s gaze drifts down to where the rigid silicone is assaulting his ass, Bucky clenches his fingers tight around the edge of the thick mat under him and curls his toes, straining against the cold metal stirrups, drawing his every aching muscle tight to try and stave off his orgasm. But the unrelenting pleasure of the fake cock fucking into him while Steve watches has the familiar heaviness tugging at his gut as his balls draw up and tight. And, oh, this is going to be so embarrassingly quick.

“I — oh, fuck, I’m gonna—” Bucky pants harshly before gnashing his teeth together. He can’t say _come_ in front of Steve. “Uh, it’s gonna — ahh — fuck, it’s gonna happen,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. He twists the mat roughly, trying to keep himself flat on the table and not bucking up, fucking thin air as the sterile, medical machine, designed only to bring him pleasure, fucks him better than any half-bit alpha ever has.

Steve's fingers flex over Bucky’s hip bone, digging into him, trapping him on the table as bright blue eyes, all but swallowed up with black, flick back to Bucky’s face, and that’s it, he’s gone.

Bucky’s cock jerks under his gown, spilling into the condom, his balls clenching, lifting, pushing pulse after pulse of come from his body. The strangled cry trapped in his throat finally breaks free as he struggles against the pressure on his hip — his instincts to rock forward, to _move,_ taking over. The knot, now swollen and full, strains against his already stretched ass until after two... three... four more thrusts, it forces inside him, driving out another stream of come as his rim constricts, clamping tight and locking him to the artificial bulge. The first spurts of protein are thick and warm, and Bucky can’t fight the soft mewling noises from sighing over his lips at the feel of being filled — synthetic come or not.

A reassuring thumb is brushing over his hip, and Steve’s voice is thick and low. “That was perfect, Bucky. You did great. You’re safely tied to the knot. Do you feel alright?”

The warm exhaustion of Bucky's post-orgasmic haze fills and surrounds him, and he's lost, floating as his heartbeat starts to slow. A gentle nod is the only answer he can manage.

“I’m going to try and make you a little more comfortable. Is it okay to clean you up, or would you prefer to do that yourself?”

Bucky just sighs as his eyelashes flutter closed, and he lets himself drift. His name falls from Steve's lips and slides through him like a caress, but Bucky can't drag himself back up.

Strong hands wrap around his ankles gently, lifting them from their metal prison before lowering them to hang limply from the table. Latex rolls down over his skin, and he twitches in Steve's hand before the damp coolness of a cleansing wipe drags over his softening cock. Foil tearing floats past his ears before warm fingers are taking hold of him again, this time rolling in reverse.

Powerful arms slide under his back and tuck under his thighs, lifting him, moving him up the bed before being carefully placing him on his side. A soft pillow slides under his head, and a warm blanket is draped over his body a moment later. Bucky snuggles into the fabric covering him, drawing his knees up and sighing contentedly as more protein feeds into him.

“Just rest. I need to see another patient, but I’ll be back to check on you shortly. There’s an emergency call button beside the table if you need me.” Steve’s voice sounds beside his ear, but Bucky can’t force his leaden lids open. He hums sleepily.

The quiet _snick_ of the door closing breaks his tenuous connection to consciousness, and he floats into blissful oblivion.

**. . .**

Bucky comes back to consciousness slowly, blinking the world into view to find Steve looking down at him, those blue eyes brightening as he finds focus. Reality filters down over him slowly, his brain coalescing all sensory input into sluggish awareness. He’s on his back again, legs in the stirrups, artificial cock still pressing into him.

“You back with me?”

“Yeah. Ready and willing for round two,” Bucky sighs in a game of two truths and one lie.

Steve’s eyes narrow slightly as if he can detect the untruth, but he just gives Bucky’s hand a reassuring squeeze before moving back between his thighs. Steve doesn’t say a word, just flicks a switch on the machine, and Bucky braces himself as it stutters to life inside him once more.

The first thrusts aren’t as awful as he’s expecting, the gentle pressure makes his cock start to refill as slick drips in thick trails down his ass — his body reacting and welcoming the new attention. But as the pistoning increases, ramping up in intensity, Bucky can’t bite back the harsh gasps as pleasure blurs into pain. His legs jerk in the stirrups as nerves flare like bolts of lightning screaming through him, scorching him, looking for grounding.

Steve’s hand is back on his hip, those large fingers pressing so hard Bucky knows there’ll be bruises tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind, it’s a distraction from agonizing jabs at the oversensitized bud inside him. “Do you want me to stop?”

Bucky jerks his head side to side, gritting his teeth to stop the scream bubbling in his throat. “No, no, it’s — ah — oh, fuck... No, it's fine.” He squeezes his eyes closed, but he can’t stop the tears from escaping out from under them and leaking down his cheeks.

The machine grinds to a halt with a loud _beep_ , and Bucky opens his eyes to find the torment of his body reflected on Steve’s face as he stares down at him.

“I said it’s fine,” Bucky mutters. “I can take it.”

“Jesus, Bucky, you’re crying, you’re in pain. This isn’t... it’s not—”

Bucky's heart drops to his stomach and flounders hopelessly. His pulse kicks up as anxiety sweeps through him. Steve can’t stop; he can’t go back on his word. “ _You promised_.”

“I know, I’m not — just, give me a minute to think.”

Bucky remains quiet as Steve runs the back of a blue glove-covered hand across his forehead. “What’s hurting, the stimulation, or the pressure?”

“The pressure. It’s too much, too hard. Can you change the strength of the machine?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, it’s a sort of a one-size-fits-all deal. I could...” his tongue darts out, swiping over his lower lip, and Bucky mirrors the movement without thinking. Steve swallows audibly. “I could try manual stimulation.”

“Manual — I, uh, what is that?” Buck wipes the salty streaks from his cheeks.

“Well, it’s a more, ah, hands-on approach. It would mean me inserting my fingers into you and mil— ah, massaging your prostate manually to trigger an orgasm. You would have to tell me when you are close, so I can re-engage the machine for it to knot you again. But... I’m not sure it will work, and Bucky, if it doesn’t, I won’t have a choice but to —”

“It’ll work.” And Bucky is sure, because just the thought of Steve — any part of Steve — inside him, has him rock hard and leaking against his belly already.

The sharp _click_ of Steve unsnapping the dildo from the machine makes him jerk on the table, and he can’t stop his ass clenching, clutching hungrily at the fake cock as Steve guides it slowly out of him. The large head bumps against his rim, but the sparks of pleasure pales in comparison to the feel of Steve’s fingers pressing in on either side of his hole as he tugs the dildo free with a wet _pop._

Bucky closes his eyes, listening to Steve prepare for... whatever comes next. Anticipation sends a fresh rush of warm, wet slick running down his ass.

“Ready?” Steve’s rough voice makes him throb.

At Bucky's nod, Steve’s fingers push against his hole. The thick digits slip inside him with little effort; their entrance eased by the sticky mess coating his already fucked out ass.

Steve’s fingers move inside him, finding the spot quickly. Bucky cries out as they rub over his prostate, and he edges his knees wider, spreading himself, wanting _more._ Having not given much thought to the actual process, Bucky expects Steve’s fingers to massage his prostate much like he does to himself — small circles and the occasional push. So when Steve’s whole hand starts to move, driving forward, _fucking into him_ , Bucky thrashes on the table, gripping the mat beneath him, a litany of soft _ah, ah, ah’s_ spilling from his lips in time with Steve’s thrusts.

“Does this feel okay?”

“Oh, fuck, _yes,_ ” Bucky hisses. Tension screams through his legs, still locked in the stirrups, as his hips jerk up in abortive little thrusts, riding Steve’s fingers.

Steve's thumb slides up beside Bucky's balls as the heel of his hand presses down under them. Each thrust of Steve's hand grinds into Bucky’s sensitive sack, drawing small whimpers and shuddering moans, making his cock bounce on his belly as it leaks steadily.  
  
“That’s it, just like that, you’re doing good.”

The praise burns through Bucky like a wildfire, and he cries out, reaching up to fist his hair, tugging on the sweat-damp strands harshly. He's going to splinter into a million pieces, broken apart by Steve’s fingers — far superior to the giant fake cock, because he's flesh and blood and _Steve._ “Oh my god, you feel fucking amazing.”

Steve presses his free hand down, low on Bucky’s belly, pinning him to the table, and he pushes up against the weight to have Steve's hand push back. His aching rim clutches at Steve’s fingers, sucking at them greedily as they work him over and tear him apart, chasing the pleasure building, _building_ , ready to burst. The strangled cry rips from his throat as he writhes on the table. “Uh, uh, _Steve._ ” He releases the damp locks from his left hand and reaches down to wrap trembling fingers around Steve’s wrist. “ _Please._ ”

“That's it, Bucky. Are you ready to come?”

Fire burns over Bucky’s skin. _Steve said come._ Bucky moans, nodding frantically and squeezes Steve’s wrist harder. “Please don’t stop, _please_ , I’m so close.”

The pressure on his belly lifts, and Bucky releases the rest of his hair to scrape his nails over the searing heat of Steve’s handprint, over and over, etching the mark into his skin. Bucky keens against the sudden stretch of his rim, burning, straining, struggling to take the dildo as Steve pushes it in alongside his fingers, still working inside his slick, messy hole.

“You’re doing so great, Bucky. I need you to relax your body, take a deep breath for me.”

Bucky draws in a shuddering breath and tries to relax his taut muscles, but his orgasm is swelling low in his belly, and his whole body is a coiled spring, ready to snap. Sweat slicks his back, making him slide against the mat as he bears down on the hard curve just as Steve thrusts it deep inside him.

Rolling static pulses in front of his eyes and darkness blurs the edges of his vision. He’s never felt so _full._ It’s _incredible._ Bucky’s brain goes soft around the edges, and he feels like he’s melting and flying, and his world expands into a kaleidoscope of bliss and narrows to the feel of Steve’s fingers and the thick dildo moving inside his tight, wet, heat.

“Yes, oh god, make me come, please, I need to, need —” Buckys words are jumbled, garbled by the pleasure short-circuiting his brain, but Steve places his hand back on Bucky's hip, and scrubs a thumb over the sensitive skin, so close to his cock he can feel the displaced air whisper past him.

“Yeah, that’s it. You’re so good, Bucky, so good, but I need you to come for me now. Can you do that?”

“ _S-Steve!“_

White noise burst in front of his eyes, roars in his ears, and pulses through his body as ecstasy rips through him, wave after wave of pleasure breaking over him as his ass quivers and clenches and floods, and his cock jerks and empties against his belly. Sparks light up the back of his eyelids like fireworks, and the last thing Bucky feels is the push of the fake knot slipping inside him as the final wave of bliss crashes over him and drags him under.

**. . .**

“Bucky?”

The deep voice floats somewhere above him, just beyond reach. Exhaustion claws at him, trying to keep him down, shrouded in darkness, but gentle fingers carding through his hair coax him back up.

“Can you open your eyes for me?”

Flickers of light sneak under Bucky’s lids as they flutter weakly. It takes several failed attempts before he can force them open, and the world swims, blurry and indistinct, around him.

“Hey, there you are. How are you feeling? Do you think you can sit up?”

Bucky blinks, trying to focus on his surroundings, but disorientation fogs his mind. The mint-colored walls are suddenly navy blue, and the exam table is a lot softer than he remembers. A fuzzy white blanket is draped across him, and flowing over the other side of the king-size bed.

 _Bed_.

Panic flares at the base of his skull as he jerks upright and scrambles backward. A solid wall behind him thwarts his retreat and knocks the air from his lungs. His eyes dart from the window to the door, looking for an escape, but his brain feels like it’s sliding untethered around his skull, the quick movements make the world spin around him, and he pitches sideways. Firm pressure on his shoulders steadies him and settles him upright once more.

“Whoa, whoa, easy. You’re okay, Bucky, you’re safe, it’s just me. It’s Steve.”

Steve. Bucky’s racing heart pounds in his head, stirring up flashes of memories that beat in time with his pulse. _Steve._

Beside the bed, Steve drops to his knees, lowering himself to Bucky’s level, and lifts his hands, palms out. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” Steve’s voice is soft, wrapping around Bucky like a caress, soothing him. “You’re fine; just take your time. You’ve been out for a few hours.”

“Where am I?” The whirling room slows, then stops, and Bucky finally finds his equilibrium.

“I brought you home.”

“This... isn’t my home.” Bucky looks around once more, just to be sure. No, this apartment is far too neat and organized to be his. There’s no overflowing laundry hamper in the corner, no random cookbooks on the floor, and there’s honest to goodness art on the wall instead of his hastily taped movie posters. Not to mention he doesn’t own a king-size bed.

“No,” Steve confirms as his hands drop to his sides. “It’s mine. I couldn’t rouse you at the clinic, but your stats were stable, and I promised...” The corner of his mouth draws up hesitantly. “I wanted to keep you close, to keep an eye on you until you regained consciousness, just to be sure. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

“No, that’s — no. Thank you, I think.” Bucky runs a hand through his tangled hair and winces. He lowers his arm and glances at the small bandaid glaring up at him.

“Oh, I had to insert a cannula for the IV. I needed to give you fluids after..." Pink creeps up Steve's neck. "You were severely dehydrated.” He nods to the end of the bed and the neat pile of folded fabric. “Your clothes are there when you’d like to get changed. I didn’t want to dress you while you were unconscious.”

Bucky nods slowly. No, that would be entirely too intimate. It’s not like Steve had just had his fingers inside him or anything. Heat stings his cheeks again. “How did I get here?”

“I drove you home with me, and then I carried you up here.”

 _Carried..._ Bucky’s cock throbs to life under the paper gown, and he pulls the blanket back up to his chest. Visions of being wrapped in Steve’s arms, with nothing more than a thin veil of fabric between them as he’s carried up six flights blooms to life in front of his eyes, and for a moment, he’s worried about ruining Steve’s obviously expensive sheets. But then he feels it — something smooth and solid, pressing inside him, and he freezes.

His mind skitters along the memories from this afternoon until it finds an answer: the plug Steve had mentioned putting in him when explaining the procedure. Steve must have inserted it after the second or... “Did you, um, did I get all three?”

“Yeah.” Steve's gaze slips from Bucky to the floor. “You were pretty out of it for the third procedure. Your levels came up enough for me to keep my promise, but they’re still critically low. That’s why I brought you here, though —” Steve’s brows knit together, and the corners of his mouth turn down. “You _are_ free to leave at any time; I’m not keeping you here. I just thought it would be _better_ , here. The scent blocker I gave you wore off, and it seemed safer to have you here, at least until you woke up. My scent won’t mask yours, but it will keep other alphas away, stop them from trying to take advantage. You’re welcome to stay here; you can have my bed. I’ll take the couch, of course,’ he adds hastily. “I would feel better if I could check on you during the night — your vitals, I mean. But it’s your decision. If you’d feel more comfortable, I can help you downstairs if that’s what you want. Whatever you want, Bucky.”

There’s a crushing pressure in Bucky’s chest, like his heart is swelling and straining against his ribs, trying to break free. He rubs over his sternum, expecting to feel it ballooning under his fingers, but everything _feels_ normal... even though _nothing_ feels normal.

His experiences have shaped his expectations of alphas, but Steve is nothing like anything he’s ever known — Steve is here, _on his knees_ , purposefully putting himself in a position of submission to put Bucky at ease. He’s never had someone — let alone an _alpha_ — care so much about his well being, about _him,_ as to put his feelings and comfort above their own. It makes him feel off-balance and unsettled... and more than a little giddy.

He knows Steve’s kindness is inherent — he’s a good man, Bucky can feel it in his bones — but he also knows Steve’s concern is purely professional, a doctor worried about his patient, and nothing more. Still, a small voice whispers in the back of his mind — it wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To pretend? Just for one night. To pull a pillow to his chest and snuggle down in a nest of blankets and silken sheets smelling of vanilla and the faintest, tantalizing traces of _Steve_.

The dull ache of longing thrums through his chest, but Bucky knows he knows he can’t stay — can't pretend to be bonded, pretend to be _Steve's_. Come morning, the fantasy will end, burn away with the first rays of dawn, and the thorn of reality will press in on him, all the deeper for the delay. Better to keep fantasies to _his_ bedroom where they belong. Steve is his doctor, his neighbor, and maybe one day, a friend. But to let his heart hope for anything beyond that is asking for a lesson in disappointment and despair.

“I appreciate everything, really, I can’t tell you how much, but I — I can’t stay.” Bucky swallows roughly watching those imploring eyes disappear under lowered lashes.

“Of course.” Steve’s voice comes easy, a stark contrast to the muscles coiling tight under his gray shirt. “I’ll leave you to get dressed, and then I’ll help you to your apartment.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Steve says simply, rocking back on his heels before pushing to his feet in a fluid, graceful movement that makes Bucky’s mouth go dry. Steve gives a small smile before turning and striding to the door.

“Uh, Steve? The, um, the p-plug?” Bucky stammers. “What do I...?”

At the door, Steve pauses and turns, his hand tightening on the knob. “Oh. I’m sorry, I had to, you were leaking...” Steve clears his throat. “Your body should have absorbed the protein by now, so you’re fine to take it out. Or I — if you need help...” Steve trails off, nodding when Bucky shakes his head. “Then you can remove it and discard it here or when you get home. We’ll use a fresh one for your session tomorrow.”

 _Tomorrow._ Bucky had almost forgotten. “Okay. Thank you.”

The door closes with a soft _click,_ and Bucky lets the blanket drop to his lap, followed quickly by his hand as he presses the heel of it to his aching, traitorous cock.

He lifts a pillow and stares at it indecisively as he gnaws on his lip. Steve is wearing the blockers again, recently applied if the crisp menthol-heavy aroma is anything to go by, but here on his pillow, lingering under cloying, artificial vanilla, is his _real_ scent, too strong for even a laundry cycle with one-too-many caps of detergent to remove completely. Curiosity twinges inside him. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it’s just asking for trouble, but he’ll never have the chance again. The cool satin finish slides over his cheek as he succumbs to temptation, pulling in a slow, deep breath through his nose.

It takes his mind a moment to recognize the strong, powerful note of ozone dancing above the warm, earthy scent of wood and smoke — a bonfire raging under a building storm, uncontrollable, irresistible... destined to burn Bucky to ashes.

Groaning, he tosses the pillow aside and crawls from the marshmallow-soft mattress. That... that had been a mistake. Now, every time the pressure drops and a storm hovers on the horizon, or his neighbor on the floor below uses their wood-fire stove, or someone lights a fucking match, all he’s going to be able to think of is _Steve._

Frustrated fingers pick at the knot at the back of the gown, but time and movement have drawn the strings tight, and it resists his efforts. Huffing out a curse under his breath, he tugs it over his head, struggling to get the cinched waist over his shoulders, easing them through one at a time. Once free, he crumples it and throws it on the bed with a scowl.

After three seconds of careful consideration, he decides to keep the plug in — the last thing he needs is to soak his jeans on the way to his apartment if Steve touches him, or smiles at him, or _looks_ at him...

His whole body feels too sensitive, a nerve rubbed raw, and the rough scrape of denim over his legs as he pulls on his jeans has him gritting his teeth, and focusing on the blissful stretch of his ass around the plug instead.

It’s a new feeling. Heat sex with alphas had always been relatively quick — he’d be bent over the nearest available surface and used for their pleasure while waiting to take what he needed. They’d pop a knot and milk themselves into him, emptying themselves quickly, not wanting to be tied to a stranger for longer than necessary. But the plug inside him feels good, knowing he can be full for as long as he chooses.

Is this what it’s like to be knotted properly? To lie together, languidly connected until entwined bodies release each other slowly, naturally. Would Steve press up against him, wrap those strong arms around him and kiss the back of his neck before falling asleep, locked tight inside him? Desire slices through Bucky so fiercely it steals his breath. _Fuck._ This is _exactly_ what he had wanted to avoid. Shrugging off the futile fantasies, he pulls on his hoodie, gasping as the soft fabric sweeps over his nipples.

“Bucky? Are you okay in there?”

Ignoring the full-body flush, Bucky shoves his feet into his boots, balls up the discarded gown, and tucks it under his arm. Doing his best to keep his strides even despite the delicious shifting pressure inside him, he marches to the door, stumbling back when he opens it to find Steve leaning against the frame, waiting. Those familiar hands reach out and stop his backward decline.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you feel dizzy? Light-headed?” Steve’s voice is tight as searches Bucky's face for a telltale sign of weakness.

“I —yeah, I’m good, thanks to you. You’re quickly becoming my own, personal anti-gravity device.” Bucky gives a grateful smile, hoping it will smooth some of those lines from Steve’s forehead.

It works. The only creases remaining when Steve’s face lights up in response crinkle his eyes and press into his cheeks. “Well, I may have to give up the doctor gig so I can be around to catch you. Keeping you on your feet seems to be a full-time job.”

Bucky laughs for the first time in days and shrugs. “It’s not my fault gravity loves me, I’m a lovable kind of guy.” He can feel the imprint of Steve's hands even after they lift from his body.

Blue eyes search his for a moment before Steve’s low voice slips from his lips and slides down Bucky’s spine. “I’m sure.” Steve places a gentle hand on the small of Bucky’s back and leads him toward the front door. “Just remember, if you feel sick during the night, or you’re worried at all, about _anything_ , please don’t hesitate to come to me.”

Bucky can feel the weight of curious eyes tracing their movements as Steve escorts him down the single flight of stairs to his apartment, the hand on his back never wavering. At his door, Steve hesitates, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if he’s trying to decide whether he should move closer or head back to the stairs. “Bucky, I’d like to —”

“Watch out, coming through!”

The warning comes a breath too late, and Bucky topples back as Steve crashes into him, shoved by the bundles of brightly colored sweaters and scarves amassed in a vaguely human-shape as it bustles past Bucky’s apartment and continues up the stairs.

In the back of his mind, Bucky registers the possessed sweater bundle pausing five steps clear, but the rest of his mind, body, and soul is wholly consumed by the way Steve’s body is slotted against his, trapping him against the door, a thick thigh wedged between his, nudging his cock, as Steve’s nose presses to the scent gland behind his ear.

The sharp inhale thunders in Bucky’s ear as Steve’s entire body goes rigid. The smell of peppermint spikes, and a dark note of smoke burns through the crisp scent before Steve jerks his head back, though the rest of his body remains crushed against Bucky’s. Steve stares down at him, black eclipsing blue, and Bucky twists his hands in Steve’s gray t-shirt as his legs threaten to buckle once more. The fabric stretches taut in his grip, and his eyes dart to the new skin of Steve's neck on display — the new, _unmarked_ skin on display.

_Steve Rogers is unbonded._

Bucky’s mind goes soft as his cock hardens and strains against Steve.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there, though, wow, I don’t know how I missed _you._ ”

The annoyingly cheerful voice cuts through the fog in Bucky’s head, and he turns to the talking sweater pile. “Hi, Darcy.”

“Oh, Bucky. I didn’t see you there behind the wall of rippling muscles. Are you going to introduce me to your new _friend_?”

“Uh, yeah, of course. Darcy, this is Steve — ah, Doctor Rogers. He’s new to the building, he’s my, ah, he works over at the ORS Clinic. Steve, this is Darcy Lewis. She lives on your floor, and is the best barista over at _Whole Latte Love_.”

Steve’s hands remain clamped around Bucky’s waist as he steps back, putting a cushion of space between them that is too much and nowhere near enough.

Darcy hop-jumps down the stairs, landing with a _thump_ next to Steve. “A doctor? You don’t say.” She leans closer, nostrils flaring, before placing a palm on Steve’s bicep. “And a strapping alpha one at that, right here in our building.”

Though Bucky keeps his eyes focused on Darcy, he can feel the weight of Steve’s searching gaze on him. After a moment, half of the warmth around his waist disappears as Steve twists, lifts a hand, and extends it toward Darcy, who clasps it between both of hers enthusiastically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lewis.”

“Oh, call me Darcy, please, and the pleasure is _all_ mine. You know, I was thinking about coming into the clinic to talk about options.” She leans closer to Steve and drops her voice to a mock whisper. “My heat’s due next week, and it’s so hard for an unbonded omega like me to feel satisfied with artificial knotting. Maybe I could pick your brain about _alternatives_.”

Bucky watches rainbow nails dance up Steve’s arm out of his peripheral vision. A shard of jealousy slices through him, and he lowers his eyes to the ground instead. To Steve’s bare feet. A strange sense of intimacy threads through him, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Bucky dear, are you done with Steve here? I’d love to steal him away for a minute or two to get his _professional opinion_.”

Bucky’s eyes fly open, darting to Darcy and Steve and back again.

“Actually, I was— “

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Bucky blurts. “He was just making sure I got home safe and... now... I’m home... safe.” Bucky reaches behind him, fumbling for his doorknob.

Darcy hooks her arms around Steve’s bicep and beams. “Great!”

“Bucky...” It’s the first time Bucky's heard uncertainty in Steve’s voice, and it sours his stomach.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s fine,” Bucky mumbles, finding the knob and twisting it before stumbling backward into his apartment, frowning forlornly as Steve’s hand hangs in the air between them. He presses the door closed with both hands and drops his head down between them.

_Fuck._

The muffled voices sound through the door, and it’s all he can do to not press his ear up against it, to listen in, to hear if Steve is going up to Darcy's apartment to give her his... _advice_. How is it possible for a single day to be the best and worst day of his entire life? He’s just found an amazingly kind, sweet, single, hot as hell, unbonded alpha — the most amazing alpha he’s ever met — and pushed him right into the arms of another omega.

Bucky grabs the paper gown from under his arm and pelts it in the general direction of the trash bin, storms to his bedroom, and launches himself at the bed. The springs creak alarmingly as he bounces softly on his mattress, face down in a mess of sheets and blankets and pillows that do _not_ smell like Steve Rogers.

The plug shifts inside him, making him gasp, recalling memories of Steve’s fingers there just hours before. He throbs wetly and he grinds his hips down into the mattress, reveling in the delicious friction, before flopping over onto his back and reaching for the zipper of his jeans.

Thanks to Steve, Bucky has survived the day, but if he has any hope of getting through tomorrow, he needs to break the Pavlovian response Steve rouses inside him. A repeat of today is not an option. The flush of desire shifts to one of humiliation as he remembers how he'd begged and pleaded and fucked himself on Steve's fingers. Whatever gossamer thread of possibility that may have allowed him to become something more, _anything_ more that Steve's patient had snapped and dissolved with his pathetic display today. There's nothing for it, he needs to shake off this yearning inside him — Steve is his doctor, his neighbor, and _that's it._  
  
...Well, and okay, maybe the occasional heat-fueled fantasy, but that is _definitely_ all he is. That's all he can ever be.

Bucky wriggles out of the denim and toes off the bunched fabric, along with his boots, and kicks them off the end of the bed before taking his aching dick in hand. Luckily, he has a plan to dull the shine of attraction Steve sparks in him — he's going to fuck his fist hard enough to pump all these flights of fancy right out of his cock. Before tonight becomes tomorrow, he's gonna get Steve Rogers out of his system... one load at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ii. Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. It's been a shit week wherein I was not in the right mindset to put myself into someone else's head and actually _word_.
> 
> iii. Okay, so.. after the unexpected... foreplay (plot?), hopefully I didn't completely shatter anyone's expectations (in a bad way) with the first offering of smut. It's a hard line to toe, professionalism in sexual situations (or sexual situations in professional settings?) especially when building a relationship. 
> 
> iv. Also. The end chapter is fast approaching, and I have been toying with a few ideas, so... gather 'round, it's _impromptu poll time!_ Adding a 'light' _Daddy Kink_ tag to the fic — place your votes: Yay or Nay?
> 
> v. As always, I love interaction with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussion-y here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.


	4. Feed A Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I’ve had to update the tags, please heed them if you have fic allergies. 
> 
> ii. Please also see the new **/?** chapter count, but do not be afraid! I wandered back into plotland, and had to split chapters because I needed a beat betwixt angst and smut. Hopefully you guys don’t mind moarrrr words of these two oblivious idiots and their struggle to get it together.

" _...meenie, miney, mo._ "

Bucky eyes the items laid out on the kitchen counter, lips dancing side to side, trying to make a decision. Syrup? Whipped cream? Both? Anxiety bubbles in his stomach. Perhaps his hesitation is the universe taking pity on him for once, giving him a sign that this isn't the best idea he's ever had. 

But, it is _an_ idea, and currently the only one he has.

In his haste to flee last night, he had forgotten to ask Steve about his appointment today, and he has no idea when he's supposed to be at the clinic. He doesn't want to wait until they open to call, because what if his appointment is first thing? He'll never make it across town on time. And that frown and pursed lips last night were enough to convince him that he needs to go. Critically low levels, Steve had said. He rubs a hand over the flush prickling up the back of his neck, ignoring the small, mocking voice in his head, whispering that he cares less about his levels and more about having Steve's hands on him again. 

But, motivation aside, the solution remains the same: he needs to talk to Steve.

Steve, whose number he doesn't have. Steve, who probably spent all last night knot-deep in Darcy Lewis because Bucky had been too chicken shit to make a move when he had the chance. His heart drops to his stomach, floundering on the sour waves of regret before sinking to his feet.

But despite the ache in his hollow chest, Bucky knows it is for the best. He's never had a relationship with an alpha that lasted more than an hour — he wouldn't know what to do with Steve even if he had him. Well… he knows _some things_ he'd like to do. He groans as his blood heats and throbs south. 

He squeezes his bleary eyes shut and rubs his fingers over them, the grittiness trapped below a silent, painful reprimand for his choosing quality time with his fist over his pillow… and all of it for naught. 

The moon rose and fell to a carnal symphony of sweaty, sticky skin, broken moans and pleading whimpers as he'd fucked himself to visions of Steve. But by the time his fourth orgasm had ripped through him, tearing him apart, leaving him panting and wrecked, he had been no closer to losing interest. In fact, with each fantasy, his fascination had increased until the heavy-lidded hour before dawn was lost to daydreams of watching Steve paint, teaching him to dance and bake, of lazy mornings spent locked together, wrapped in those ridiculously thick arms... happy, warm, and sated.

In short, by dawn, Bucky had been well and truly fucked, just not _only_ in the way he'd been expecting. 

Still, he'd rallied. He'd dragged his exhausted, self-abused body to the shower on cramping calves and washed the mess from his skin and the failure from his mind, and had come up with a new plan.

He can't have Steve, that much is clear — not in the way he _wants_ him, at least. Steve had shown no interest beyond that of a doctor, and making a move would end in humiliation and heartache. It's not an outcome he can risk. He knows anyone else would have ignored his fears, sent him to hospital without his consent, and washed their hands of him.

But once the procedures are complete, he doesn't want his interactions with Steve limited to awkward greetings in the stairwell. He knows he wants to keep Steve in his life in some way, in any way he can, and the best Bucky can figure it, that means friendship. And friendship starts with sugar.

Squaring his shoulders, he strides forward and grabs the syrup from the counter and pours a less-than-healthy dose over the fresh stack of pancakes, watching the thick flow glide over the melted butter and drip down the edges onto the dark blue plate. 

He glances at the clock on the counter. The bright red display glares back at him angrily: 7:16 am. Under normal circumstances, he would never wake this early, but waking requires having been asleep. He tugs his lip between his teeth, gnawing on it, suddenly second-guessing his plan. Is it too early to go visiting neighbors with a thank you breakfast? What if Steve's not awake? What if he's not home? What if Bucky knocks and no one answers, or worse, _Darcy_ answers? Bucky's stomach turns over violently. Well… he'll just have to cross that gaping chasm of mortification when it appears at his feet. 

Before he can think himself out of it, he grabs the plate and marches to the door, carrying out the second-nature motions of flicking off the lights before exiting his apartment. The door slams behind him, and he's two steps clear when the scent burns through his nose, makes it to his brain, and brings his body to a grinding halt. 

_Steve._

Unmistakable. Overwhelming. _Steve._

The whimper breaks through his throat, echoing through the stairwell as his body reacts in the now expected way, throbbing messily over his skin as his knees threaten to give way beneath him. 

"Bucky?" 

Bucky throws out a hand, gripping the railing as his head snaps up to find Steve on the landing above him, staring down at him in… shock? Confusion? Embarrassment? His head is spinning too much to be sure.

Steve starts moving forward but stops himself. "Is everything okay?"

"I, uh --" Bucky stammers, eyes raking down the hard creases pressed into Steve's clothes before flicking up to the tired eyes, the blue made to look all the brighter by the dark circles bruising the skin beneath. "I'm fine. I was just, uh, I thought I'd bring you breakfast, for um, you know, to say thank you for… yesterday. I didn't know you were, ah…busy."

Steve runs a hand through his already tousled hair, rifling it even more, the blond locks sticking up at odd and adorable angles. 

"Yeah, I, ah, was just about to have a sh—" Steve breaks off, blinking rapidly. " _You made me breakfast?_ "

Bucky shuffles on his feet, his body fighting the _abort_ command screaming through his brain. "Oh, yeah, it's just pancakes. I didn't know if you'd eaten, but... I made extra... thought you might like them," Bucky lies through his teeth. The truth is, he'd made them especially for Steve; his own stomach not being in any condition to hold in anything other than crushing anxiety. 

"Wow," Steve breathes softly, looking at Bucky with such awe that his toes curl in his boots. "Thank you." He gestures Bucky up. "Come in. I just need to jump in the shower first. Will they keep?"

"Uh-huh," Bucky squeaks, trying valiantly to ignore the image of Steve in the shower now swimming in front of his open eyes. 

"Great! I thought I could take you into the clinic with me to save you retaking the subway," Steve says, a frown tugging his brows down slightly. "That is if you don't have other plans for this morning."

Bucky shakes his head and makes his way up the stairs on trembling legs, the scent of Steve — of smoke and storms — increasing in strength with every step. By the time he reaches the landing Bucky's holding his breath, not trusting he has strength enough to resist doing something he'll regret if subjected to the full power of Steve's alpha aroma.

His lungs are burning by the time Steve fishes his keys out of his pocket, unlocks his door, opens it, and motions Bucky through. 

Bucky takes a small, experimental breath as he steps inside, detecting only the lingering scent of peppermint, slightly stale, from last night. Steve definitely hadn't spent the night here. Despair creeps down Bucky's spine. 

But so what if Steve spent the night tied to Darcy? It's not like they'd _bond_ after one night. His stomach clenches painfully at the thought. And even if they were, Bucky can't spend the rest of his life hiding on his couch, inhaling cheesecakes, watching reruns of Nailed It because an unrequited crush finds happiness with someone else. He should be happy for Steve. Friends are happy for each other... right? 

Bucky wills his suddenly leaden legs to move away from Steve, needing space, and takes the plate over to the breakfast bar as Steve walks backward toward the bathroom. "Make yourself at home. I'll just be a minute."

Bucky stands motionless, save for the twisting of his hands, until the sound of water drifts out from the bathroom. Suddenly alone in Steve's space, he feels out of place, an intruder. But after a moment with his gaze locked on his feet, curiosity itches at the back of his mind, and he sweeps his eyes around the apartment. 

He had been so preoccupied with the way Steve had been pressed up against him last night, he hadn't really gotten a good look at the place. The layout is the same as his apartment, but that's where the similarity ends. Steve's furniture isn't the sleek, modern style Bucky would expect, but rather a mix of eclectic pieces, much like his own though doubtlessly much more expensive, all geared to comfort over style, yet somehow managing to look cohesive in a way Bucky hadn't managed.

The landscapes and portraits peppered around the room are all beautifully rendered with vibrant colors and vivid brushstrokes, filled with so much texture they're all but begging to have fingers trailed over them. Locking his fingers to avoid temptation, Bucky wanders over to an easel set up in the corner, facing away from him. His eyes dart to the bathroom door — still closed, slightly off-key humming now mixing with the rush of water. Curiosity growing, Bucky rounds the easel, eyes going wide when he sees the canvas propped in place. 

A man takes up half the piece, sitting on the railing of a fire escape, legs dangling over the edge, fingers curled around metal, and head tilted up to the sky — purples and blues and splashes of pink bursting from the blackness, all overlaid with a field of glittering stars. Bucky's breath escapes his lungs all at once, a visceral reaction, one he's never experienced before. He isn't sure how long he stands there, staring, captivated, before he leans forward, eyes tracing the brush lines on the lone figure. They seem more deliberate than those of the rest of the painting, more carefully applied. The sweeping lines of the man's hair seems to float over the canvas, caught on an invisible breeze, dark, shoulder-length, styled so similar to his own that he reaches out a trembling finger—

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Steve murmurs from behind him.

Bucky jolts back, smacks into Steve, and jerks forward again, feeling like a human ping pong ball as he fights to find balance. Peppermint dances around them, mixing with a sweet scent of shampoo that he can't put a name to, and only just resists leaning in to draw a deeper breath. Curling his hands into fists, he forces them down to his sides. "I -- sorry! I didn't touch it!" 

Steve's husky laugh pulls goosebumps from Bucky's skin. "It's fine; it's just still wet. I didn't want you to get the oils on you. Any marks you would have made could only serve to make it look better. I can't quite capture... Well." He runs a hand through his neatly brushed hair, ruining his efforts.

Bucky's mouth drops open before he can stop it. "Would have ruined it, you mean. This is incredible," he breathes softly, dragging his gaze from the canvas to Steve.

The tell-tale flush from too-hot water that colors Steve's skin deepens as a tentative smile tugs at his lips. "No, what's incredible is the smell of those pancakes." The easy-going grin from yesterday eclipses the shy smile as Steve turns and heads for the breakfast bar, buttoning up the final fastening of his collar. "Did you make them yourself?"

"Uh-huh," Bucky calls distractedly, turning back to drink in the painting while he listens to Steve rattle around in a silverware drawer for utensils. "Is all the art in here yours?"

Steve's self-conscious chuckle makes Bucky turn to find Steve staring at him. He shrugs before settling himself on a stool and starts to slice up the pancakes. "Yeah. That's pretty pretentious, I guess. Do you want some?"

"Art?"

Steve's eyes dance as he holds up the large piece of pancake speared on his fork. "Breakfast."

"Oh." Bucky can feel his neck warming uncomfortably. "No, thanks." With the way his stomach is churning, he won't be able to keep it down, and that is not a visual he wants Steve to associate him with. "And it's not pretentious. If I had your talent, I wouldn't even bother with a canvas, I'd paint murals over every available surface of the apartment," Bucky says earnestly as he reluctantly leaves the easel and makes his way toward Steve.

Steve's lips quirk up before they open, and the fork disappears inside his mouth. The throaty moan that rides it back out has Bucky sliding onto a stool and gripping the sides hard enough to make his fingers ache. 

Watching Steve eat pancakes may be the most erotic thing he's ever seen. Steve's too-long, too-dark lashes flutter closed as his jaw works, grinding the fried batter between his teeth before his tongue swipes out over shiny lips, licking up traces of syrup, completely missing the long drip running down his chin. His chest swells as he drags in a deep breath through his nose, carrying another appreciative moan on the slow exhale. A thick index finger swipes up the escaping sweetness off his chin and presses it into his mouth. Bucky can see Steve's tongue working, can almost _feel_ it lapping, sucking, cleaning the stickiness away, and Bucky pushes his teeth into his lip just in time to stop the pitiful whimper slipping free. 

Steve's eyes open, finding focus on Bucky immediately, as his finger slides from his mouth with a wet noise that sounds about as obscene as it looks. "I was right; _incredible_. I can't believe you made these."

"I - um…" Bucky coughs and squeezes his thighs together, accidentally knocking them into Steve's. He grits his teeth and shifts discreetly, not able to take physical contact so soon after the pornographic display. He should have taken the third seat. That is social etiquette, isn't it? To keep a cushion of space so you don't make the other person uncomfortable, or jump from your seat and climb them like a fucking tree. "I'm guessing you don't usually make yourself pancakes, probably a protein bar for breakfast kind of guy."

Steve laughs around his new mouthful and swallows roughly. "Am I that obvious? To be fair, it's usually for convenience more than anything else. They're easy to grab on the way out the door after I sleep in." Steve takes another bite and munches thoughtfully, the same blissed-out expression settling over his face. Once his mouth is empty again, he winks. "Though, if I could make pancakes as good as these, I'm not sure I'd eat anything else." Steve's tongue darts out to lick a dollop of syrup clinging to the flat of his knife, another soft moan reverberating in his throat.

Bucky's mouth waters and he runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth as his throat aches. He can think of something he'd love to eat right now, or suck and lick and drink down, at the very least.

Steve's eyes dart to the clock on the wall, and he frowns. "Oh, we should head out soon, traffic can be a bit of a problem at this hour."

"You don't have to finish them if you—"

"Oh, just try and stop me," Steve sighs, cutting a golden brown disc in half, folding it over itself and stabbing it with his fork. "I've never had anyone make me breakfast before. Well, not since I was a kid, anyway, so I'm not giving these up without a fight." He pauses with the food halfway to his lips, those ocean eyes turning serious. " _Thank you,_ Bucky. You didn't have to do this, but… I'm touched that you did."

Bucky just nods, not trusting his voice, his smile trembling at the edges. Visions of bringing Steve breakfast in bed on lazy mornings, of licking up those errant syrup drips from tanned skin, flashes in his mind and makes his spent cock twitch back to life. He tucks the fantasy away in the back of his mind and leans against the counter, content for now to watch Steve make quick work of the pancakes —though thankfully without the orgasmic soundtrack— as a warm feeling unfurls inside him. 

  
. . .

  
Bucky keeps his eyes fixed out the window, watching the city pass in a blur as Steve maneuvers them through the early morning traffic. He can still feel the imprint, the heat from where Steve's hand cupped his elbow gently, guiding him from the apartment, down the stairwell, and to the garage. 

He had felt an amazing and _alarming_ sense of pride at having the alpha walking beside him, _with him_ , a tantalizing glimpse of his fantasy made real — not just being with an alpha, or being bonded, but being _Steve's._ It unsettled him more than he wants to admit, and he'd spent the majority of the ride so far offering stilted small talk while trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside his head. He'd never wanted to be bonded just to be bonded. He knows his fiercely independent streak is seen as unseemly and unattractive given his designation, but it's one of the things that he appreciates most about himself. Despite societal expectations, he likes his life. It has always felt rich and full and never once had it felt lacking in any way… until today. 

Now, all he can see is the giant, Steve-shaped hole in his life. He knows he doesn't _need_ Steve, but god, does he _want_ him. 

"Are you okay over there?"

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

"About today?"

Bucky hums and turns his attention to the digital display on the dash, the blue lights glowing softly.

"It's okay if you change your mind. If yesterday was… not what you were expecting, it's not too late to take you to hospital. I can come with—"

Bucky shakes his head, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. " _No_. That's not happening."

Steve shoots him a furtive look before glancing over his shoulder and switching lanes, guiding the car smoothly into a gap it really shouldn't have fit into. "You don't have to tell me, but… is there a reason you hate hospitals so much?"

The familiar sensation of ice burning through his veins sends a shiver rolling down his spine, and he tucks his chin to his chest. A flash of skin peeks up at him from the small hole in his jeans, a lingering reminder not to blow torch creme brulee on his thighs while distracted. He picks idly at the hard edges, a distraction from the waves of panic lapping at his throat.

"When I was a kid, I had to spend a month in hospital."

"That must have been rough." 

Bucky drags a nail over the patch of bare skin on his thigh, _scratching, scraping_ , watching the skin redden. "I was in a medical trial, and there were… complications."

The car eases to a stop, drawing Bucky's attention up but not out. Steve's curious gaze settles on him, making his skin prickle at the unspoken question, the weight of expectation, but Bucky stares blankly through the windshield. The cross-traffic darts in front of them, a blur of motion and color, and he blinks himself from bleached memories to find focus on the angry red glow of the traffic light. 

_Stop._

The word screams through his brain, _stop, stop, stop,_ a mantra, a warning, but the secret he'd kept for most of his life, wrapped in pain and shame, claws up his throat and pushes past his lips. "Do you know about _Rebirth?"_ Even after twenty years, the word dies on Bucky's tongue, and he runs it against his teeth, over and over, trying to scrape away the bitter taste. 

He drags his eyes to Steve's face, not wanting to see, but unable to _not_ watch Steve's golden skin burn red as confusion, understanding, shock and revulsion flicker over his face like a time-lapse sunset. Steve makes a strangled noise in his throat. "The omega conversion project?"

Bucky nods. "HydraPharm were so sure they'd found a way to solve the alpha birth decline crisis by simply _making_ more alphas. But it didn't work," he gestures to himself with a tight smile, "obviously. The serum they injected us with was excruciating, the side-effects almost killed half of us, and the tests were… brutal. But when they started getting desperate, trying to _activate_ the serum inside us--" Bucky's voice cracks, and he clears his throat roughly, blinking back the memories stinging his eyes. "I just… all of that, the memories, it's all still inside my head, and hospitals they just… I know it's stupid, it doesn't make sense, but I don't… I can't…"

"Shh, no, it's okay, it makes _perfect_ sense, Bucky." Steve reaches over, places a hand on Bucky's thigh, squeezing gently. "I'm so sorry they did that to you." Barely suppressed rage trembles Steve's voice and simmers over his skin. "It was an abhorrent, inhuman idea that was never going to work. They shouldn't have put anyone through that, especially not children."

Bucky can't tear his eyes away from the curve of tanned skin, molding itself so perfectly over his body. The reassuring weight pulls him back to the _now_ . He's safe; he's with _Steve._ Drawing in a deep breath, Bucky lets the anxiety wash through him, fade back into the past where it belongs. "It makes sense, in a twisted way. For all intents and purposes, _our_ purpose is to birth the next generation of alphas. But the only way we can do that is _with_ an alpha, and even then, the odds are fifty-fifty. They thought the protein was the key to the designations, so if they could trigger its production, alter our body's chemical makeup, I guess they thought they could fix us."

A low growl sounds in Steve's throat as his hand tightens on Bucky's thigh. "There's nothing to fix, Bucky. Omegas aren't _broken."_

A horn blares behind them, and Bucky jumps in his seat as his heart jumps to his throat. Steve grinds out a curse under his breath, eyes flicking to the rear view mirror before darting to the now green light. His hand returns to the steering wheel, fingers curling tight enough to turn his knuckles white, and puts the car into motion again. 

Bucky runs his fingers over his thigh, tracing the phantom handprint over his denim-clad skin before pressing his hand to his leg, trapping Steve's heat. "Maybe, but our place in the world _is_. Or, at least it was. I think it's why my parents agreed to the trial. They didn't know what it would entail, of course. Hydra lied to them, sold them a bill of goods, sunshine and rainbows, a brighter future for their child, and what parent doesn't want that? Alphas are respected, envied and revered, a designation that comes with privilege whether you ask for it or not." 

Bucky glances out the window, watching the towering buildings and throngs of people sweep past, too fast for his eyes to focus on. Now the dam inside his chest has broken, the words spill over his lips in a torrent, and he doesn't want to stop them, even if he could. Steve had given him his word without knowing why it mattered so much yesterday, and now, Bucky finds himself wanting to make him understand _why._

"My father was a beta, and they were, even then, regarded as suited to business and decision making, not at the mercy of uncontrollable hormonal swings. It gave him a comfortable enough life, but never with the esteem or recognition that being an alpha would have brought him. He thought happiness and designations were intrinsically linked, and knew an omega's place was always under an alpha. He wanted more for me than that."

Bucky loved his parents dearly, he knows they meant only the best for him, and in their position, he would have been hard-pressed to not do the exact same thing with the information they had at the time. But it hadn't stopped him from feeling shame at being born an omega, of feeling like he wasn't good enough, a feeling that lingered in the back of his mind, still.

The world goes dark as Steve steers the car down into the parking garage, and Bucky closes his eyes to let them adjust behind tired lids. The vehicle comes to a gentle stop, and he hears Steve shift on his seat. There's a beat of heavy silence before that now-familiar hand covers his, long fingers wrapping around his wrist and rubbing soothing circles over his skin. 

"I'm not blind or stupid, Bucky, I know how the world works, how some of the world still sees omegas, but… I need you to know that's not how I see them, that's not \-- that's not how I see _you."_

The vehement warmth of Steve's words dance over Bucky's cheek and tempts his eyes open, making his breath catch in his throat. Steve is so close, Bucky's vision fills with intense blue eyes, staring imploringly at him under a veil of thick lashes. Bucky suddenly craves feeling of those lashes fluttering butterfly kisses to his cheek before Steve presses a real kiss to his lips. He wonders what Steve tastes like — Spicy? Sweet? The cavity in his chest suddenly feels much too small, crushing down against his heart even as something strange and unknown and aching fights to expand inside it.

"You're not just a—" Steve clamps his mouth shut, and a muscle works over his jaw, ticking with the effort of keeping the rest of his sentence behind his pressed lips. Steve's chest rises and falls three times before his lips part again. "You're not just an omega, Bucky," he draws out slowly, measuring every word. "You're more than the sum of people's expectations or limitations or prejudices. You are an amazing man, and you should never feel _less than_ anyone, not even an alpha. _Especially_ not an alpha."

Bucky's tongue is thick, dry, unwieldy in his mouth, and he can't wrap it around his thoughts to form them into words, so he just nods, unable to tear his eyes from Steve's.

Steve looks like he wants to say more, opens his mouth but closes it again, and instead leans back, easing out of Bucky's space, lifting the hand from his wrist. "So, you ready to do this again?"  
  
Steve tries for a smile and Bucky matches his efforts. He nods once more, filling his lungs with the soothing candy-cane scent of Steve. "Can't be any worse than yesterday, right?" 

Knowing he's going to have Steve's hands on him, maybe _in_ him again, has Bucky's own hands trembling as he unclips his seat belt. Steve is out his door and pulling open Bucky's before he even has his fingers on the handle. He unfolds himself from the car, flushing when he stumbles over too-eager feet, aware just how alarmingly the tables have turned. What a difference a day makes.

A thick arm wraps around Bucky's waist, steadying him, as Steve uses his other to push the door shut. The orange flashes dancing in front of his eyes may be his brain short-circuiting, or the lights flashing as Steve locks the car, but the only thing he cares about is the way Steve's arm remains locked around him. Ignoring the loud voice screaming in his head telling him this is bound to end disastrously, Bucky makes his choice. He knows he can't have want he wants, not really, not _all_ of it, but he also knows he'd be stupid to not take what Steve is offering while he has the chance.  
  
Bucky leans into the embrace, pressing closer to Steve, and lets himself be led from the dark garage into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iii. A huge **thank you** to everyone that voted and left thoughts on the daddy kink poll! 
> 
> Alright, so.. When I started this fic, I added complete tags from the outset (mostly/where possible) for where I thought the story was going to go. Since all the Nay voters seemed to be fairly hard nopes, I figure by adding the kink, it would potentially ruin the story/experience for those, while leaving it out wouldn’t _take_ anything from the Yay voters. And given you’ve all come along for the ride to this point, it seemed unfair to ruin it for some by adding a tag that wasn't warned for from the beginning. 
> 
> But, there were a lot of Yay votes too, so while the tag won't be added to this story, there is going to be a sequel. It won’t be to everyone’s tastes; featuring the light daddy kink & also Mpreg. You may have guessed from the pregnancy talk in an earlier chapter, that originally the story was going to end with Bucky finding out he was expecting, but that's been changed, as I realized I didn't tag for it and it works better for the sequel anyway. 
> 
> The daddy kink I can warn for in chapter notes, and leave markers for the (at this point in time *single*) sex scene it features in, in case any Nay voters are interested in following along with their adventures. The Mpreg I can’t really leave markers for, since that’s a large part of the overarching plot. As with this fic, where foreseeable, I’ll add all the tags up front so you can decide if it’s for your not. It's not a perfect solution, but hopefully this work around works for most. :)
> 
> Iv. Annndd.. Nuuuu poll time! There has been some interest expressed about having this story written from Steve’s POV. Just out of curiosity, how many would actually be interested in that/would read that? There’s not a terrible amount of new ground to be covered from Steve’s POV, given it’s a fairly contained plot, so don’t feel bad about voting No. :)
> 
> v. As always, I love interaction with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussion-y here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.


	5. May Cause Heartburn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i. Tags have been updated! (As best as I can pretzel them).

Bucky is a mess of leaden limbs, sweaty skin, drowning in equal parts pleasure and pain. Steve's fingers are a livewire inside him, every turn setting fire to his nerves, and he's jerking, twitching uncontrollably on the table. His lip quivers and he drives his teeth into it, but the sharp spike of pain isn't enough, and he turns away from Steve, hiding the tears that streak down his cheeks.

He can do this. He can… 

_He has to._

Steve's motions are gentle, no longer driving into him, just stroking, massaging, milking his prostate, trying desperately to coax a final orgasm from his spent, empty body, but those thick fingers are unrelenting, unyielding… unbearable. 

_He can't do this._

"No, no, no," Bucky cries, turning his face back to Steve. "P-please, stop, I — I just.. I'm sorry — I just — need a minute, I'm sorry," he babbles, cringing at the whine of his voice, pitiful to his own ears.

"Jesus, Bucky, why didn't you—" Steve's motions stall, his voice breaking. Thick fingers slide free from Bucky's aching hole, slowly, carefully, before Steve's snapping off his gloves and tossing them on the bottom tray of the trolley, still waiting between Bucky's thighs. He runs a thumb over Bucky's cheek, wiping away the tears. "Shh. It's okay; you've nothing to be sorry for."

Bucky scrubs his head against the table, his sweat-soaked locks clinging to his face, sticking to his neck. "You don't understand." He tugs the gown down over his thighs, twisting the hem in his hands. "I — last night, I — I needed… needed to…" He catches his cheek between his teeth, pressing down hard, staring imploringly at Steve, willing him to understand. But those summer sky eyes are clouded in confusion and mortification flows over his tongue in a metallic rush when his teeth press deeper. "I forgot about today, that I'd need to… c-come… again... three more times… so last night, I just — I don't think I can, not again. I'm so sorry." Fresh tears well and spill over, from humiliation or exhaustion or the sense of failing Steve, he's not sure, but he swipes at them with the back of his hand angrily.

Something unreadable flashes in Steve's eyes, black edging out the blue a little more. "It's okay. I understand, and it's completely normal. Managing a heat can be difficult, and masturbation is an essential part of dealing with the excess—"

"Steve," Bucky chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut, his hands dropping heavily to his sides, curling into fists to stop himself reaching for his cock again. "That's not helping."

Bucky can feel Steve's gaze burning over him, drifting down his heaving chest, settling on the raised fabric of the gown low over his belly. 

"Maybe it _could_ ," Steve draws out slowly, voice uncertain. Bucky drags his eyelids open enough to peer up at Steve through his lashes. "I think we can agree manual stimulation isn't going to work this time. You barely made it through the second session. Do you think, I mean, would you be comfortable with, ah," Steve swallows thickly, his tongue darting out to rough his dry lips, "do you think you could climax through masturbation?"

A single bolt of heat pulses deep in Bucky's core — the thought of Steve standing above him, watching him wrap a hand around himself, murmuring encouragement and praise as he jerks off, making his insides ignite. "Uhh…"

"I, ah, with privacy, of course," Steve adds in a rush as if he can read Bucky's mind again. "I can draw the curtain for you, and I'll just — I'll wait outside until you're — you're ready to be knotted, uh, by the machine, the machine's knot." Steve wrings the back of his neck and fixes his gaze on the machine between Bucky's thighs. He clears his throat. "It's not exactly the routine way of doing things, but we're already a bit outside the lines on this one, and with your sensitivity, I'm not sure how else to…"

Something strange and warm flares to life in Bucky's chest, watching Steve's composure crack, though a shock of guilt quickly extinguishes it. He has been so stupid and so incredibly selfish. Steve has been nothing but good to him — amazing, even — no one else would have put themselves out there to help him as Steve had, and yet Bucky's night of fantasies have made the real Steve's job that much harder. Already a problem patient, needing more time and resources than he should because of his stubbornness, Bucky's now compounding the problem by having some kind of ridiculous reaction to Steve's discomfort.

Bucky grinds his teeth, self-loathing seeping through his skin, clinging to the sheen of sweat already blanketing his trembling body. "I — I can try."

Steve nods, takes hold of the curtain, and draws it around the table without a backward glance. Bucky watches as he moves to stand, back to curtain, right in Bucky's sightline, parallel to the head of the table.

"When you're about to co— to climax, call out to me, I'll be right here." Steve's voice is rough and low, just loud enough to carry through the curtain, to reach Bucky's ear. 

Bucky's heart is pounding under his ribs, threatening to break through his chest, and the thumping echoes in his head, his thoughts pulsing in time with the harsh beat. Can he really do this? Jerk off with Steve three feet away? Make himself come to fantasies of Steve while Steve _listens?_ His cock twitching on his belly is the only answer he needs. 

Bucky lifts his feet from the stirrups, rolls his ankles before placing his heels on the edge of the table, butting them up against his ass. He skids against the sodden mat, slippery with his slick, as he leverages himself higher on the table. The pounding in his chest increases, pushing into his throat as he lifts the gown with shaky fingers, gasping as cool air kisses heated skin. A high whine forces past his lips as his fist closes around the base of his straining cock, forcing up the shaft, his hand stuttering over the now-dry latex sheath. 

_Fuck._

"Everything okay?" 

Bucky wonders if he says 'no' if Steve will pull the curtain back, offer to give him a hand. New wetness leaks from his ass and he clenches his thighs together, trapping his hand in place, a full-body shiver rolling through him. 

"Yeah, just — yeah." 

Bucky draws his knees up to his chest and reaches down, trailing over his fingers over his sloppy, quivering rim before pushing inside with a breathless moan, filling the space Steve's fingers had occupied only moments before. He wishes he could feel them there, now. Not pushing or prodding, just filling him, feeling Steve inside him, seeing Steve towering over him, large hand on his hip, watching him fuck himself, watching him come _for Steve._ He whimpers, his fingers gliding out on a fresh stream of slick as he lowers his legs, tucking them back against his ass, and smoothes the slippery mess over the condom. 

His slick-covered hand slides easily now, and he turns his face toward the curtain, to the silhouette of Steve standing unmoving just a few feet away. Harsh pants are broken by frantic moans as his hand rides his cock, his arm trembling, burning, as he pulls, pushes, faster, _faster, tighter._ Sweat pools under his knees, slides down his legs, his neck, his face. He's so close but so far, stuck on the knife-edge of pleasure, unable to tip over the edge. 

He lets his legs fall open, knees pushing out from his body, his heels digging into his ass, exposing himself completely, imagining Steve pulling open the curtain and seeing him laid bare, open, wanting, _needing_ . Frantic movements become jerky, uncoordinated, as in his mind, Steve climbs onto the table, slides into him in one savage thrust, the strong line of Steve's back bowing over him as teeth rake over the sensitive skin of his neck, scraping, biting, _claiming._

The thought makes him keen, the desperate noise filling his ears, filling the room, his hips jerking off the table, fucking up into his fist. His aching muscles coil tight, tensed to the point of pain, screaming, quivering, threatening to give out. His cock is throbbing in his hand, angry and red, crying for release. Tears of frustration pool in his eyes. He can't, he can't.. 

"Bucky? Are you ready?" Steve grinds out the words like they've been stuck in his throat for hours, and Bucky's tears spill free.

"N-no, no. I ca— I, not yet."

Hissing out a curse, Bucky rips the condom from his cock and tosses onto the gown, still covering his chest. His aching legs finally give out, and he lets them fall, hanging from the edge of the table, limply. His wet, ragged gasps don't soothe the burning in his lungs, and he ignores the wheeze eating up the edges of his breath.

More tears well and spill over, frustration and embarrassment and failure blurring together in his mind and driving him back from the peak even as he struggles toward it. _For Steve, for Steve, for Steve._ The mantra cycles through his head, his cramping hand trying to squeeze harder, trying to force his pleasure to peak. Darkness presses in on him, crackling static sparking in front of his open eyes, and he's falling, breaking, _dying_. His hand stills, his chest heaving. He can't come, not like this. He needs… he needs… 

"St-Steve," Bucky gasps. 

Steve is around the curtain in three steps. His gaze flicks to Bucky's hand before fixing on his face. "Are you ready?"

"No, I c-can't, I'm s-sorry," Bucky's sob breaks on a hiccup, more tears escaping down his cheeks. "I'm so close but I can't, I need m-more, I need...." Bucky presses his teeth into his tongue, trapping the unspoken _'you'_ behind his lips.

"Hey, shh, it's okay. You're okay." A low mechanical hum sounds as the table starts to move, the top half rising, bringing Bucky to a reclined sitting position, his face level with Steve's chest. A tender hand chases away the fresh tears before brushing away the long strands of hair plastered to skin. Steve moves down to the end of the table, and suddenly, Bucky is being stretched open once more, the dildo sliding into his fucked out hole with little effort, pushing a whine from his throat. "You did great, you did so well, Bucky. You're almost there. You're close, aren't you?"

Bucky nods, another hiccuping sob breaking from his chest. "I need… help, I need…" His control breaks on a moan, and he can't think anymore, can't hold back, he just _wants._ "Need you, _please_ , Steve, need you to touch me."

Steve's back at the head of the table in a heartbeat, hand locking over Bucky's hip, a calloused thumb drawing soothing stripes over his skin. He shakes his head. "Better to have the machine inside you, ready. I think that's all you can take right now."

Bucky mirrors the action, the mat catching his damp hair, nesting it into knots. "No, not there... here." He reaches for his aching cock again, wrapping his fingers around it, sliding up to twist over the head, collecting the beads of precome before dragging it back down. "Wanna feel your hands on me, _here_."

The low, guttural sound from Steve's throat is cut off abruptly as he clears it. "I — I can't do that, Bucky. I'm sorry."

 _"Please,_ Steve. You need me t'come… need you to make me, I can't — I jus' can't by m' self, I tried, I swear, I _tried_ ," Bucky slurs, exhaustion from yesterday, from last night, from this morning all at once bleeding together, turning his world dark. His hand falls away as his eyes flutter closed. 

"Hey, open your eyes for me, Bucky. Bucky? Stay with me. Can you do that for me?" 

He nods unseeingly, fighting the darkness, for Steve. The world is dulled, half-hidden behind heavy lids and dark lashes, but Bucky watches Steve's throat work, bobbing once… twice… and then—

"That's it, stay awake for me, and I'll — I'm going to help you, just… just hold on for a minute. Keep your eyes open for me."

Bucky doesn't even try to stop the whimper as Steve walks away, wanting to reach out, to stop him, but his body is sluggish, and Steve's gone before his hand lifts from the table. 

Dredging up what crumbs of energy he has left, Bucky struggles to stay awake, blinking slowly, dragging his lids up each time they fall, again and again and _again_ , every time harder than the last. It would be so easy to give in, to sink into oblivion, to just let himself float, but Steve's voice is calling to him, broken only by muted shuffling and the hazy rush of water running, sounding far off to his ears. He keeps blinking, keeps breathing, stays _here..._ for Steve.

After an eternity, the blackness of his eyelids lifts to a vision of golden skin stretched over hard muscles, the deep lines carved into Steve's body making Bucky's cock throb, tight and hot. A strong arm slides around his back, raising him from the table, pulling him close, his cheek pressing to the hard swell of bare chest, and the scent of Steve, _just_ _Steve,_ rips a shuddering moan from his chest. 

"Oh, god, Steve…" Bucky's listless arm lifts, trailing gentle fingers across Steve's skin.

"I need you to put your hand back on yourself. Do you think you can do that for me?"

Bucky scrubs his face over Steve's chest, the gentle rasp of sparse hair rubbing over his cheek as he wraps his hand around his leaking cock. He starts fisting himself, dragging in a deep breath and holding it, trapping the scent of Steve in his lungs till they're burning with it.

"Smell so good, so fuckin' good, makes me so wet," Bucky babbles on the sharp exhale, his hips rocking up, pushing his aching cock through his slick fist.

Bucky runs his nose over the deep line running under Steve's chest, needing _more,_ following the curve, chasing his scent to where it's strongest. Bucky's mind flares white-hot as he nudges under Steve's arm, moaning when it lifts for him. Soft hair tickles his face, and he draws a trembling breath through his nose, grinding against the patch of hair, again and again, molten heat rolling through him, triggering some deep, primal desire to cover himself in Steve's scent, to take and be taken.

"That's it, Bucky, just take deep breaths and keep moving that hand, swee—" Steve breaks off with a strangled noise, his hand tightening on Bucky's back, fingers digging into his skin. 

The pain from Steve's fingers burns into pleasure, knowing Steve is _marking him_ , even if only by unintentional bruises, shoots to his cock, but still, he can't find his peak. "Touch me, please, _please_ ," Bucky begs desperately, blinking up at Steve through wet lashes, "Please. I'm so close, wanna feel you, please, Steve, please, _please._ "

"You're doing so good, bab—Bucky." Steve's free hand reaches down to stroke the sensitive skin of Bucky's inner thigh, making him gasp and moan and buck up into the touch, trying to get Steve's hand where he wants it. "You can do this; you're almost there. Just keep making yourself feel good, just like that." 

The scent of Steve burns sharper, comforting warmth spiking into raging heat, and Bucky rubs his face closer, harder, coating himself in Steve's musk. His tongue darts out, dragging over the damp hairs, lapping hungrily, wanting Steve's taste coating his mouth.

"Oh, fuck, _Bucky!"_ Steve gasps, fingers digging into Bucky's thigh, but doesn't pull away.

"Please, Steve, make me come — need you, please Steve, please... _Alpha,_ " Bucky begs, tears dripping down his cheeks.

The low growl rumbling in Steve's chest is the only answer before Steve's hand is wrapping around Bucky's, warm and tight, not touching his cock, just riding his hand, squeezing gently, urging him on. It's enough, it's too much, it's _everything_. 

"Yes, yes, gonna make me come, Steve, gonna come for you, just you," Bucky babbles, watching his precome smear over Steve's fist as they move in unison.

Steve's hand releases him to reach down, straining toward the machine, and Bucky uses his free hand to chase Steve's, clutching and clawing, trying to drag it back, even as his other hand works his cock. "No, no, need you, please."

"I'm right here, still right here."

Bucky whines as the machine stutters to life, sliding inside him, nudging at his prostate as Steve's hand wraps around his once more.

"You're so good for me, Bucky, so good, but I need you to come for me now."

The praise makes him preen, makes him keen as his abused body finally hits its peak. "Yesss," Bucky hisses, bowing off the table, "Ahh, fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming. Uhhh, _Steve!"_

"That's it, just like that, good boy," Steve rasps, rough and low and dark.

Bucky's hand goes lax, but Steve's tightens, guiding his up and down his cock, milking his orgasm from him, through him, using his own hand. 

_"Steve"_ — the name tumbles from his lips over and over, a reverent prayer, the only word his brain can find as his body shatters. The last thing he sees before his eyelids squeeze shut is his cock spurting weakly, dribbling come over their joined hands as his body shudders and clenches tight around the knot now locked inside him.

Bucky's body goes limp, and through the thick fog of exhaustion, he feels Steve lower his shaking body back down the table. 

"Mmm, I did it," Bucky mumbles, smiling up, unseeing, at Steve.

"Yeah, you did. You did perfectly; you're perfect. You can rest now. I've got you."

They're the last words Bucky hears before he floats into ecstasy's warm embrace.

. . .

"'M fine, s'okay, I can do it," Bucky slurs sleepily, tugging uselessly at the bunched denim. The world is a sliver of light, blurred and dull, sneaking in under almost-closed lids. Steve lifts his fumbling fingers and places them on the cool edge of the exam table.

"I've got it. You just concentrate on holding on to the table, keep yourself upright. Can you do that for me?" Steve tugs the jeans up, using one arm to wrap around Bucky's waist, lifting him easily, sliding the worn denim between his ass and the table. 

Bucky gasps as the movement jostles the plug inside him. His head falls forward onto Steve's chest, no longer bare, and he hums quietly. "Mhm, okay."

Peppermint wafts around him, sharp and fresh, and he lets his lashes fall closed. Turning his face, he presses his ear against Steve's chest, listening to the strong, steady thumping, a soothing lullaby that has sleep overpowering him again.

. . .

Bucky drags his eyes open, blinking the blur off the world as Steve's hands slide over his chest, hard knuckles tracing a path across his body as Steve tugs the black belt down to his hip and clicks it into place. 

"Steve?"

Gentle fingers rake through his hair, pushing it from his face as Steve squats down beside the car. "I'm here. I'm just taking you home. You can close your eyes if you want to, I'll wake you when we get there."

Bucky just nods and leans his head back. He's asleep before Steve shuts the door.

. . .

The deep voice is floating just above him, beyond him, and Bucky reaches for it sluggishly. "I need you to open your eyes for me, Bucky. Just once more. Come on, yeah, that's it, that's good."

Bucky thrills at the praise, forcing his eyes open. Steve's face is so close to his, and his arms... _Oh._ Bucky shifts, feeling Steve's arms tighten around him, holding him, cradling him. 

"There you are. How are you feeling?"

Wrapping his arms around Steve's neck, Bucky nuzzles against the warm skin. "Mmm. 'M good. Sleepy." 

"Alright, that's good. You're home, safe, in your apartment. Get some more rest, and I'll check on you later, alright?"

Bucky is falling, slowly, still wrapped in strong arms, until he's sinking into the familiar softness of his bed. He draws his knees up, hugging a pillow to his chest, and then the reassuring weight of his blanket is cocooning him, large hands tucking it around his body carefully. 

Steve's voice is floating above him again, words Bucky can't catch, so he just hums contentedly at the deep, soothing sounds, letting them drift in the air, brushing over his skin like a caress, Steve's words kissing his cheek. Gentle fingers sweep through his hair, and he thinks he can smell a trace of smoke burn through the peppermint before exhaustion claims him once more.

. . .

Bucky comes to consciousness slowly, floating gently to the surface, his eyes reluctantly relinquishing the oblivion of sleep, adjusting to the bright sunlight streaming in the open window. He watches dust motes dance in the air, swirling as the curtains flutter around them. The warm nest of sheets tangle around his legs as he stretches lazily. A dull heaviness, the memory of pain, clings to his muscles, but it's a good ache, like the satisfaction that comes after a good workout. 

Or a good _workup._

Bucky sits bolt upright in bed, awareness rushing through him, stealing his breath and burning his skin. _Oh, shit._ Bucky drops his face to his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. The images burst behind his lids like fireworks, sharp and bright, each humiliating moment more vivid than the last. 

Everything had gone fine... at first. With Steve's fingers inside him, working with single-minded focus, Bucky had bit his lip and bared down, coming with a harsh grunt, keeping Steve's name off his lips. 

The second seeding had been more difficult, with Steve's hand pressing down on his belly while the other milked his orgasm from his prostate, his brain had gone soft around the edges, and he'd been writhing, clutching at Steve's hand, Steve's name a stuttered gasp as he came.

_And then…_

More heat floods his skin as he drives the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to force the images away.

A prickle in his sleep-slowed brain makes him pause, makes his head jerk up, and he stares at the sunlight slicing into his room, frowning. Something stirs in the back of his mind, something important. He squeezes his eyes shut, searching…

Hazy memories fog his brain, wisps of recollection floating back to him — _Steve helping him get dressed, Steve carrying him to bed, Steve saying he'd be back later to check on him._ His eyes dart from the window to the clock on the wall and back again, his face scrunching in confusion. 

Eleven… In the morning? But that means... 

He'd slept all night. Had he slept through Steve's visit? Bucky draws his knees up, groaning as the answer shifts inside him, and icy dread blooms at the base of his spine. 

_Steve hadn't come back._

Steve is kind and caring, a good man, but moreover, he's a good doctor. If he hadn't come back to check in… Bucky wraps his arms around his legs, locking them together, willing the tremble away. 

Why _would_ Steve come back? Bucky had made a mess of everything. He'd gone too far; he hadn't crossed the line, he'd fucking jumped over it and now, he's made Steve step back, probably wanting to find some professional distance, or maybe he'd scared Steve off? He _had_ come on pretty strong. Those things he'd said... Bucky grimaces. At the very least, he'd sure as hell made Steve uncomfortable. The _why_ doesn't matter, the fact is Steve hadn't come back. And what if... what if he _never_ comes back?

The thought hollows out his chest, makes it ache, but he doesn't fight it away. He embraces it, leans in to it, grim acceptance settling in his gut; he _deserves_ it. All he had to do was hold his tongue, keep his feelings locked away. But he'd been so wrecked, delirious with exhaustion and strung out on need, and having an alpha, having _Steve_ offer himself up to be scented… something inside Bucky had broken, shattered, and all thought and logic and carefully constructed facades had fallen away, turned to dust, and he had been stripped bare, a yearning, burning mess, reduced to nothing but instinct and desire; an omega lost in his alpha. 

Except… Steve _isn't_ his alpha, and Bucky should _never_ have put him in that position.

Bucky had never been so thoroughly exposed — his desire, his need, his feelings for Steve so viscerally on display and now… now Steve _knows._

Unable to sit still while his insides churn, he kicks the bedding from his body, letting it bunch at his feet before he stands, gasping at the shifting pressure inside him as he straightens. The scent of Steve lingers in his nose, and his cock twitches, firming in vain hope.

Anguish constricts his throat as his pulse kicks up. His mind races ahead, desperately seeking something to hold on to, a task, a plan, _anything_ to keep him from spiraling.

He...he needs to call the clinic, to find out when his appointment is, or _was_ , and reschedule for another day, with… with another doctor. The shriveled cavity in his chest squeezes tighter still, regret bleeding out into the empty space. 

Suddenly, his skin feels too small, abrasive, pressing in on him — he's covered in Steve's scent and his own sweat, dried slick, come and humiliation, and he's suffocating in it. The call can wait. Drawing a shuddering breath, he staggers to the bathroom to wash away the mess on his skin, wishing he could clean away the mess he'd made of his life just as easily.

. . .

Bucky rakes his fingers through his air, making tracks between the wet locks, gathering them up into a messy bun, as he pads into the kitchen, the insistent growling in his stomach a forceful reminder that he hasn't eaten in far too long. He's not sure his rolling stomach can take food, but he's grateful for the momentary distraction. Something to focus on other than...

Shaking his head, he pulls open the refrigerator door, and sighs as he takes in the woefully barren interior. He knees the door closed, and sets his sights on the freezer instead. But the only things staring back at him are two store-bought, strawberry-topped cheesecakes, and a bag of frozen peas. He eyes the cheesecake, lips twisting in indecision. No, things can't be that bad, not yet.

Making a mental note to go grocery shopping, he shuts the freezer before yanking open the cupboard and snagging a box from the shelf, a small smile tugging at his lips. Any day that gives him a reason to have graham crackers for breakfast can't be all bad. Popping two into his mouth, he makes his way back to his bedroom and sinks onto his bed, snagging his phone from the bedside table on the way down. Propping the box on his pillow, Bucky thumbs open his contact list, and freezes, his tenuously-held composure falling away immediately. He stares down at the newly added number, his jaw going slack as his anxiety comes rushing back. 

_Steve Rogers._

When did Steve have access to his phone? Did Steve add it when he brought him home yesterday? Or… _oh._ He swallows the mouthful of half-chewed crackers roughly, feeling them scrape at his throat. _Had_ Steve come back last night? Surely if he had, he would have taken the plug or left a note? _Something_ to let Bucky know he'd been. But maybe… 

Maybe things _aren't_ as bad as he thinks. Well, no, they're pretty bad, but maybe Steve put his desperate display down to his heat. Hope flickers in his chest.

His finger hovers over Steve's name before he scrolls, finding the entry for the clinic. The crackers in his belly threaten to put in another appearance as anxiety pushes higher in his throat, waiting for the call to connect.

"Omega Reproductive Services, how may I be of help this afternoon?"

"Uh, hi, I have an appointment today with St- D-Doctor Rogers, and I can't remember when—"

"I'm sorry, Doctor Rogers is out of the clinic, all his appointments for today have been rescheduled with other doctors. You should have been notified this morning, texts went out to all patients that had their numbers on file. I am happy to check for you, though. What name is the appointment listed under?"

 _Other doctors._ Bucky's fingers ache as he crushes the phone in his grip, mashing it harder against his ear. "Oh, ah, Bu— uh, Barnes, James Barnes."

"One moment, please."

Keys clicking rapidly in the background is the only sound breaking the dead air of the call, and Bucky twists his hands in the sheet impatiently. Why would Steve have rescheduled his appointments? All of them? And why wouldn't Steve have told him? 

"I'm sorry, there's no appointment listed under that name."

"Oh." Bucky's mind blanks, uncertainty leaking into his voice. "M-maybe it's for tomorrow? Sorry, I — I might have gotten the day mixed up." 

There's more tapping, and then— "No, I'm sorry, there's no appointment listed under that name for any doctor in the coming week. Would you like to make an appointment now? Doctor Rogers won't be back until next week, but his schedule is full for the next two months. Would you like to wait or see another doctor?"

 _Months?_ Panic threads through his veins. "I, uh, I'm going to have to, uh, check and, um, call you back. Sorry, and t-thank you." 

"Have a nice day." 

The call disconnects and Bucky stares down at the screen as he fights to keep his breathing steady, the embers of hope in his chest being smothered, painfully. Two months. _Two months._ That… can't be right. Maybe Steve had made the appointment under Bucky instead of James. Should he call back? Or maybe… 

He swipes over the screen and presses Steve's name before he can think himself out of it. Adrenaline floods through him, making his hand shake as he lifts the phone to his ear, barely able to hear the ringing through the pounding in his ears. 

After seven long, agonizing rings, Steve's voice mail kicks in, an automated voice intercut with Steve just saying his name. Bucky clicks off the call quickly, ignoring the way goosebumps shiver over his skin at the sound of Steve's voice uttering one syllable, trying to forget the way _he_ had been moaning it yesterday. 

Tossing the phone aside, Bucky shoves off the bed and starts pacing. Nothing makes sense. Steve had said he'd stop by and then didn't. Steve said he would need two more days of treatments, but hadn't scheduled any. Steve obviously added his number to Bucky's phone, and yet, doesn't pick up when he calls. Frustration crests and the streak of fire, so contrary to his designation, sparks inside him. He sets his shoulder and strides from his bedroom to his apartment door, pushes through it, and lets it slam behind him. 

His lack of control yesterday had been embarrassing and inappropriate, but surely it's not enough to have Steve walk away from him in the middle of his treatments. At least not without an explanation or at the very least, helping him make alternate arrangements. That's the doctor-y thing to do, surely. And as Steve's patient, he has a right to know what's going on.  
  
...Right?

Bucky's resolve wavers, his legs slowing as his pulse increases with every step, until suddenly, he's at Steve's door, recoiling from the overpowering, sharp scent of peppermint. 

He raises his hand, but pauses, catching his lip between his teeth, shifting uneasily on his feet, suddenly rethinking his plan. He's standing outside Steve's door indignantly, about to bang on it and ask what Steve's plans are for knotting him. What if Steve doesn't want to see him? What if Steve tells him to leave? Or laughs at him, or, or, or...

His hand, hanging in the air halfway to the door, trembles as all the terrible _what-ifs_ scream in his head. He's never felt so topsy-turvy, like he's caught under a wave, rolling, can't find which way is up.  
  
But way in the back of his mind, a small tremulous voice cuts through the shouting. _What if it's a misunderstanding? What if he has it all wrong? What if Steve invites him in?_

It's the voice of hope, of yearning and fantasy, but it's enough to let his hand fall against the wooden door in a single timid knock. Muted sounds travel through the door and a shiver runs through him. Steve is home. Bucky lets his hand fall against the door again, three sharp knocks this time, but still, the only answer is soft shuffling sounds, and maybe... a groan? He leans forward, straining to hear more, but only silence fills his ears for several long minutes. 

Bucky turns on his heel, ready to leave, but pauses. The groan. Someone is inside. What if it's Steve? What if he's sick or hurt? That would explain why he didn't stop in, why he's not at work, and maybe, why he's not answering the phone. What if Steve's hurt and Bucky just leaves him here? Is anyone even expecting him anywhere but work next week? Will anyone else be by to check?

Heart in his throat, Bucky knocks again. "Steve?" 

He stares down at the door handle, twisting his hands together, the bite of peppermint making his eyes water. It wouldn't hurt to try, would it? Just to know he did all he could... 

Scraping his courage together in the face of resounding silence, Bucky tries his luck. The handle moves easily in his grasp, and he pushes the door open slowly. The room is dark, the curtains drawn, and he steps into the room carefully, squinting as his eyes adjust to the lack of light.

He opens his mouth to call out to Steve, but his eyes finally find focus and all his words desert him. Steve isn't hurt. Steve isn't sick. He's leaning against the wall that separates the lounge from his bedroom, arm thrown out, fingers splayed, taking his weight as stands, naked, head bowed, eyes closed, grunting as his thick cock, jutting proudly away from his body, winks in and out of view as his hand swallows it up, over and over.

Steve draws a deep, ragged breath and Bucky's own leaves him in a whoosh, as Steve's eyes snap open, his head jerking toward the door, stormy eyes fixing on Bucky.

Steve's hand stills, wrapping tight around the fat base, around his knot already swollen and flushed dark red. A feral growl rumbles in Steve's chest. 

" _Get._ _Out._ "

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ii. So... Not sure if the smut was hot or... not. I've lost all objectivity re-reading/editing it for the past two days. Idk anymore. Hopefully it ticked a box for someone!
> 
> iii. i. Thank you for following along with the adventures of our oblivious little crumpets. I've given you guys this chapter early, so you don't hate on me for being late with the next one after leaving you on a wee bit of a cliffhanger. ~~Sorry, but I need a smut break, and need to update my other, poor neglected ABO fic while I'm at it. You all are feeding my muse with your loveeeee and making me neglect other things. (Not that I'm complaining, really).~~
> 
> iv. As always, I love interaction with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussion-y here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.


	6. Natural Remedies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. First and foremost, what follows is smut. A lot of smut. Consider this your PSA: Please ensure you have had all your smut booster shots before wading into said smut swamp. If at any time the smut gets too much, feel free to hit ‘Find’ (Ctrl+F) and search for the magic sigil **#** and it will transport you to the smut-free zone / morning after. 
> 
> ii. the individual porn tags have been updated, please heed them if you have smut allergies This kind of went off the rails a little somewhere around the 1k mark.
> 
> iii. Thank you for being patient, I hope you find it worth the wait!
> 
> iv. Unbeta'd. I can't re-read this again (for the 1507th time) so if you find any glaring, gaping errors, feel free to let me know & I'll fix. 
> 
> v. As always, I love interaction with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussion-y here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.
> 
> ETA: vi. Please be aware: There are moments in here that could be viewed as DubCon. It isn't intended that way. Steve doesn't feel forced to be with Bucky just for the rut, and would have 'handled' things himself w/o the unexpected visit. He says "no" not because he doesn't want Bucky, but because in his mind he's trying to protect him. Likewise, the rut does trigger Bucky's omega instincts, but it's his desire to be with Steve, rather than a mindless need to mate, that drives his actions. But if you're sensitive to such things, please proceed with caution.

The scent of sweat and sex and _Steve_ hangs heavy in the air, settling over Bucky's skin, filling his lungs, and fogging his mind. His mouth goes dry, and wetness slips down the back of his thighs.

Steve's nostrils twitch and flare, and he whines, the high pitched, desperate noise leaving Bucky trembling where he stands, two steps clear of the door.

" _Leave!"_ Steve roars, unmoving. Tension ripples through his body, overflowing, filling the dim room.

"I, uh, I'm s-sorry, I just — I th-thought..." Bucky stumbles backward on quivering legs, bumping into the door, flinching when it bangs closed behind him. 

The feral growl makes him throb, makes him leak, and he has to lock his wobbly knees to keep himself from sinking to the floor. He's never felt like this before, so wholly consumed by _want_ he can barely think straight. The heady scent of alpha in rut lights up the shadows of his mind and the unfamiliar urges lurking there. He wants to submit, present, to be _so good for Steve_ , make the alpha he longs to call _his_ feel good in ways he knows only he can. 

Whatever ties bind him and Steve — professional boundaries, friendly exchanges, biological yearning — blur together and fades away. Whatever mess he'd made between them could wait. Steve _needs_ , and Bucky _wants,_ and right here, right now, Steve could be his… even if only for a night. 

...If he can be brave enough.

Slowly, shakily, Bucky pushes away from the door and takes a hesitant step forward, the pounding in his ears drowning out the sound of his own voice. "I _could_ leave or —" he swallows thickly "— or I c-could stay if you w-want me to..."

Miles of powerful muscles move under glistening skin as Steve finally shifts, striding to stand behind an overstuffed recliner. " _Bucky,_ you can't be here. You need to go," he groans, his hips twitching up against the chair in front of him.

Bucky can't draw his eyes away from the desperate movements, vivid images bursting to life in front of his open eyes — thick precome soaking into the chair, making a mess of the fabric as much as Steve's skin. His tongue comes out to dart over his lips, craving the taste of Steve on them. He takes another small step forward.

"B-but you're in rut…"

Steve's knuckles bloom white on the headrest of the chair as his body rolls against it, hips undulating. "It's fine," he chokes out. "It's no worse than your heat. It'll pass. A few days, and I'll be fine."

Courage wavering, Bucky's steps falter. The hem of his shirt feels rough in his fingers as he twists it, anxiously. Steve should want him. Steve should be storming toward him, pressing against him, into him, needing to bury his knot in Bucky's warm, _willing_ hole. He squeezes the fabric tightly, tugging it down, feeling the binding of the neckband bite at his nape. "But... wouldn't it be quicker, _easier_ with me?"

"I… I can't —" Steve's voice cracks, his fingers pressing harder into the chair, the stress creases forming around the divots mirroring the creases between his brows.

Bucky wants to run his hands over Steve's face, smooth the lines from his face, pepper kisses around those downturned lips until they quirk up and open for him. Instead, he opens his mouth and says, "It doesn't have to mean anything. I can — I can help you... scratch your… itch. Make you feel good. Help you like you helped me." 

"You need to get out, Bucky. _Right now._ I'm not — I can't... _I'm your doctor,_ " Steve grinds out, hips still moving, thrusting against their fabric shield. 

"Oh." Bucky tiptoes closer. With each small step forward, his confidence edges higher, and with each step forward, the pull _Alpha_ and the scent of _Steve_ engulfs him, consumes him, luring him closer still. A small whimper slips past his lips as Steve's hand lifts from his death grip on the chair and disappears down behind it. The knowledge that Steve's fisting himself again while his eyes scorch over Bucky's body as if he can devour him by sight alone, has the heat pooling in his belly boiling over, spilling from the head of his cock, soaking through his sweats. Emboldened, he lets the hem of his shirt fall away and squares his shoulders. "Well, then... y-you're fired."

The words shock Steve still. "What?"

"You're fired. Now you're not my doctor. I can make an appointment with Dr. Barton in the morn—"

" _No!_ " The word bursts from Steve's throat, filling the room, the force knocking Bucky back a step. "No one else can see you like that, no one." 

Steve's possessiveness steals over Bucky's skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Then maybe… m-maybe we could help each other. You can rut into me, knot me, fill me — give me _your_ seed instead."

Steve whines, long and loud, and his hand lifts, regripping the chair as his hips drive forward, rutting against it, feral moans tearing from his chest with each frantic movement. "Jesus, oh, _fuck!_ " He stiffens, growling as his back arches beautifully as he shudders, broad chest heaving before his head drops low, the sound of harsh panting filling the room.

The sight and scent of Steve coming slams into Bucky like a wave, knocking the breath from his lungs and the steel from his knees, and he lands hard on the carpet, all pretense falling away. " _Please,_ Steve."

Sweat-damp blond locks cling to Steve's face as he lifts and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Bucky, I just… I can't."

" _Why?_ " Bucky hates the small, pitiful tone of his voice, the question filled with more desperation than one syllable should be capable of holding.

"Because I'm — _fuck_. Have you ever been with an alpha in rut before?"

Bucky shakes his head and bites at his lip because, no, he hasn't, but oh god, he wants to. He'd been fantasizing of having Steve inside him since that first day at the clinic, but this is more than he could have ever dreamed. He wants to feel Steve take him, again and again, to use him for his pleasure, to find his own ecstasy in Steve's.

"It's not — I need, Bucky — I just _need_ , and I'll take. Hard and fast, rough and dirty, I'll take what I need, again and again, with no thought to you, and I could —" Steve swallows roughly, anguish bleeding through the raw _want_ etched so deeply across his face that a note of acrid distress burns through his smoky scent "— I could hurt you. I won't want to, but if you let me start, baby, I can't — I won't be able to stop."

Bucky's every nerve jolts at the words, at the _image_ , and slick spills from his ass, messing his thighs, turning his sweats sodden, and in all likelihood, ruining Steve's carpet. He knows it's just the need talking, knows that come morning the fury of the rut will recede, the spell will be broken, and the fog of lust will lift to a world where he'll be forced to pretend that words spoken in the heat of the moment were never uttered. But until then, until the sun rises...

He grinds his aching ass against the carpet, feeling his cheeks spread, moaning as the sticky fabric of his pants bunches and scrapes over his aching hole. "I don't want you to stop."

" _N_ _o,_ Bucky. You don't know what you're saying. You don't understand." 

Bucky pushes up on his knees and shuffles forward, and Steve whines again, backing away from the couch as Bucky advances. His still-hard cock strains toward his belly proudly, the knot still swollen and angry, unspent. Cursing when he bumps up against the wall, Steve breathes through his mouth heavily as Bucky comes closer.

Every ounce of Bucky's self-doubt and panic and fear of rejection fall away as he stares at Steve, taking in the alpha's reaction to his own arousal. If this is his one chance to be with Steve, he's not going to waste it. He tugs his shirt over his head and lets it fall to the floor before erasing the little space still left between them.

His hands tremble as he places them over Steve's where they're wrapped around his knot, and Bucky marvels at the size of him. Everything about Steve is so much larger than life — _everything._ He runs his tongue over his lips before leaning forward, pulling in the musky scent of Steve deep into his lungs. His tongue darts out, quick and sure, again and again, soft kitten licks, lapping at the glistening head of Steve's cock, cleaning the come from flushed skin. The hungry sounds spilling from his lips are drowned out by Steve's deep moan as a fresh stream of precome runs down the angry curve, and Bucky chases it eagerly with his tongue, stopping only to press an open mouth kiss to the rise of Steve's knot not hidden by large hands. 

"Oh, fuck," Steve groans. "No — stop, stop!"

More of the swollen base comes into view as Steve's hand lifts and runs through Bucky's hair, fisting around the long locks and tugging back. Pinpricks of pain dance over his scalp as Steve pulls him away, and he can't stop the pitiful sound escaping his throat. 

"Baby, no... we can't, you're still in heat." 

Buffy huffs out a frustrated groan of his own, straining against the tight hold. "I _know_ I'm still in heat, Steve," he whines, "but I'd want your knot even if I wasn't."

"Bucky, no. That's not… You're in heat. The protein couldn't get you pregnant, but _I can_."

Bucky's lashes sweep his cheeks as he processes the words, starting at the strange warmth that flickers in his chest at the image that blooms in his mind. He glances up at anguished blue eyes through the dark fringe before he swipes his wet tongue over his lips, the taste of Steve still lingering. "Is that what you've been thinking about? All alone up here while you touch yourself? Been thinking about me? Thinking about putting pups in me?"

A loud growl bursts from Steve's chest and his scent spikes, the undeniable display of alpha dominance filling the room to bursting and sending a full-body shiver racing through Bucky. Surprise pushes out in a squeak as he's scooped off the floor, warm hands sliding across his bare back and tucking under the damp fabric clinging to his ass as Steve pulls him tight against the sweat-slicked expanse of naked, muscled chest, and carries him forward. The arm wrapped around his back lifts to sweep across the kitchen table, sending plates and papers flying into the air, fluttering and crashing to the ground.

Bucky shudders when the cold wood of the table meets his fevered skin, and trembles for different reasons entirely when the hulking shape of Steve crowds into his space, large hands landing either side of his head with a thud, boxing him in, crushing their bodies together as Steve lowers his nose to trace the line of Bucky's throat. 

Bucky lifts his neck, exposing it, submitting to Steve scenting him. His whole body thrums with the primal desire to offer himself up completely to the powerful alpha posturing above him, thrilling at the guttural growl that tears from Steve's throat as he nuzzles at the scent gland behind Bucky's ear.

"If you don't want this, you need to tell me, _now._ You've been driving me crazy all week, the scent of you — fuck, but you smell sweet. And then you're licking up on me, _needing_ me, calling out for me when you come." Steve's chest rumbles again as he bends closer, dragging his tongue over the trail his nose had taken not a moment before. "If you want to leave, you best do it now, because once I taste you, once I'm inside, I ain't gonna be able to stop until your pretty little belly is full of my come, and you're crying on my knot."

Bucky's world sharpens and shrinks until Steve is the only thing he can see, hear, taste, touch, and scent. Steve is _everything_. And Bucky _wants_ everything. _"Please,_ Steve. I want it, _please._ "

Steve curses and he lifts out of Bucky's space long enough to jerk Bucky's ruined sweats from his body. The scent of his arousal floods the air, and Steve's low whine sends a new stream of slick running down his ass cheeks, dripping onto the polished surface of the table.

Strong arms cross over his body, gripping his waist tightly, and he's being lifted, twisted, flipped. The hard smack of wood against his bare chest shocks a gasp from his lungs, chased by a moan as Steve clutches his hips, lifting them, dragging them back, his ass held high by bent knees, as impatient hands wrench his thighs apart roughly. 

Bucky's never felt so small, so utterly at the mercy of an alpha, and knowing Steve's frantic movements are jerky with desperation because of _him_ is enough to send him halfway to the edge of ecstasy already.

The pressure of Steve's hand between his shoulder blades keeps his head down, ass up, presenting and Bucky whimpers at being so open, so exposed. Two thick fingers shove inside him without warning, gliding into his slick entrance effortlessly, and he mewls softly, scrubbing his face against the tabletop, tilting his hips back, trying to coax Steve's fingers deeper, but after barely a tease they slide from him completely.

Wet noises have him craning his neck, twisting to find the source. His cock, hanging free, spits onto the table as he watches the two slick-coated fingers disappearing into Steve's mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks them clean.

Bucky's fingers scramble for the edge of the table, a white-knuckled effort to keep his hands from strangling every last drop of come from his throbbing cock as he watches Steve lick the taste of his slick from thick fingers.

"Fuck, I knew you'd taste sweet, sugar." Steve's fingers slide back inside him, twisting before dragging out, and then Bucky's being stretched wide as another finger presses in alongside the rest. "Could make a feast of you, all that sugar syrup running down your thighs, but I can't wait, sweetheart, I'm sorry, I can't." 

Bucky gasps, biting down on his lip at the harsh stretch of a fourth finger driving into him, rough and jerky, Steve's movements becoming frantic, uncoordinated. "I, oh fuck. I can't —I need — I need inside, need to be inside you, baby, can't wait anymore." 

It's the only warning Bucky gets before Steve's fingers slide from his ass and wet fingers are digging into his ass cheeks, spreading him wider still, and the fat head of Steve's cock is pushing past his rim, breaching his body in one hard thrust. Pain flares, hot and sharp, and Bucky shoves his fist into his mouth, biting down hard, trapping the scream in his throat as Steve forces _in, in, in,_ until he can feel Steve deep in his belly and the fat bulge of the swollen knot pressing against him, straining to get inside.

"Oh, Jesus, oh, fuck," Steve groans, his belly grinding against Bucky's spread cheeks before he's drawing back, the hard length of his cock sliding from Bucky's body until the flared head catches at his rim, the only thing keeping them locked together. 

" _S-Steve!"_ Tears spring to Bucky's eyes, and he blinks them away, pleasure and pain burning through him in equal measure. Steve doesn't give him a second to adjust, to let his body relax, before he's driving forward again, large hands pressing fingertip bruises into his skin, dragging him back as strong hips surge forward, snapping against Bucky's ass again and again and _again_ , driven on mindlessly by instinct and need.

The room fills with harsh panting, Steve's primal growls and guttural moans mixing with his own soft whimpers and garbled pleas as his body strains to make room enough for Steve. Bucky scrubs his face against the polished wood, now slick with his spit, and his cock hangs neglected and needy, crying onto the table in a steady stream as the burning pain in his ass blurs into pleasure with each new blunt thrust.

A high pitched whine fills Bucky's ears as the punishing pace increases, dull nails raking down his spine as Steve's hips stutter, short, hard stabs into his body, pulling back just enough to surge forward again, as if connected by a magnetic force that exists wholly between their bodies, as if Steve can't bear to be separated from Bucky's body completely. The hands from his hips disappear, wrapping around his belly, holding him up as Steve bows over him. Sweat-slicked skin glides against his own, Steve's moves becoming erratic, frantic, each charge driving further, harder, trying to force the fat knot past his already struggling rim. 

"Bucky, oh, fuck. Open up for me, baby, let me in," Steve's hot breath flows over the flushed shell of Bucky's ear, and all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and revel in the pleasure assaulting his body.

The burning stretch of his hole flares again as Steve's knot rams against him, and Bucky shoves his hand back in his mouth as panic swells in his throat. He's so fucking full, stretched too much already; there's no way Steve's knot is going to fit without tearing him in two. But oh god, he wants it, wants to know what it feels like, to have Steve inside him so completely he doesn't know where he ends and Steve begins.

Steve ruts into him mindlessly, the swollen knot seeking entrance, demanding and taking, forcing inside him, and the scream in Bucky's throat breaks free, muffled by his spit-slicked fist. 

Steve roars Bucky's name, collapsing onto him, slamming Bucky's hips down onto the table, trapping his body and his aching cock against hard, wet wood. Harsh grunts permeate the throbbing in his ear as Steve's hips grind against Bucky, the thick cock inside him jerking, spilling deep into his belly, pulses of come filling him, soaking into him, and he mewls softly against the table, his own hips struggling uselessly to move, trying to find some relief for his unspent cock. His hole hadn't constricted around Steve's knot, tying them together, but stretched so tightly, stuffed full, it doesn't matter, Bucky can feel Steve plugging him up, none of the alpha's seed leaking free.

It could be a minute, an hour, or a lifetime when Steve moves, his weight lifting, leveraged by the hands planted either side of Bucky's head. 

Steve's voice is thick and slow. "Fuck, you're amazing, Bucky. I knew you'd feel so good, sugar, just never knew _how_ good."

Steve pulls back further, his knot tugging at Bucky's rim, and panic spikes in his gut at the thought of Steve trying to break the bonding early. "Steve? No! What are you…?" 

"Shh, sweetheart, I'm not going to hurt you. Just need speed things up a bit," Steve murmurs, his fingers reaching down, fingering their joining, squeezing his own knot through the thin skin. 

"Oh." Bucky relaxes, the anticipation of pain falling away. But panic quickly morphs to disappointment as he listens to the soft moans above him. He'd never been with an alpha in rut before, but he'd been expecting, well… he doesn't know _what_ he'd been expecting, exactly, but certainly something _other_ than his one and done encounters he'd had in the past. But Steve is milking himself into Bucky's body, _speeding things up,_ so he can pull out, ready to discard him already. Maybe Steve just needed one to take the edge off? A shiver skates over his skin, a swell of regret rushing through him. Maybe he _should_ have expected this.

Steve slides from his ass, and Bucky winces at the way his body tightens, clutching at the slow drag, trying desperately to keep him inside. But a moment later, large hands are back on his hips, urging him up. "Come on, baby, turn over for me." 

Bucky complies, scrambling to turn over, gasping as his cock brushes over Steve's wrist. Uncertainty rolls through him. Is this where he gets up and leaves? Does he wait for Steve to ask him to go? What's the post-rut etiquette? So lost in his thoughts, he jolts when Steve's hands hook under his knees and lift his legs, pressing them up to his chest. 

"Uh, Ste—" His words break off in a moan as Steve slides back inside him without warning. 

"Shit, baby, if you could see your pretty little ring, stretched so wide for me, so tight," Steve grunts, lifting Bucky's legs over his shoulders before taking Bucky's body as if it belongs to him, chasing his pleasure without concern for anything else. 

Bucky's confusion falls away, arousal eclipsing all else. Now he's used to Steve's size, his body opens more easily, accepting Steve, clutching at him greedily with each thrust, waiting for that extra stretch, craving the flash of pain of Steve's knot binding them together. 

Bucky writhes on the table, Steve driving him closer, closer, _closer_. "Need, please, _please_."

"What do you need, sweetheart?"

" _Steve,_ " Bucky whimpers, raking his nails over Steve's hands where they're clamped on his thighs.

"Say it, sugar," Steve murmurs, low and deep. "Gotta tell me what you want, baby. Say it for me."

"Your knot, Steve, please, knot me, I need it, need you, Alpha," Bucky babbles.

Trapped between his belly and Steve's, his cock leaks continually, the heated friction of Steve's abs chafing over him, timed perfectly with the desperate, deep thrusts into his body, pushing him to his peak quickly.

"Yeah, gonna stuff your pretty ass with my knot, give my sweet omega what he wants." Steve surges forward, crushing Bucky nearly in half to run his tongue over the gland behind Bucky's ear before latching his mouth over it and sucking hard.

Bucky comes with a broken cry, spilling between them, feeling the wetness spreading, smearing over his skin with each movement of Steve above him. His ass flutters, clenching down on Steve's cock, searching for the knot to lock to, each new thrust rubbing over his sensitive rim, sending jolts of pain-pleasure tearing through him.

Steve doesn't stop thrusting, grunting, sucking a bruise into his skin, entirely consumed with his own release. The unending friction against his over-sensitive, softening cock makes Bucky cry out and scratch at Steve's arms.

"Fuck, Steve, I can't — I can't…"

Steve pulls off Bucky's neck, placing a hand around it instead, squeezing gently, just enough to make Bucky gasp, his back arching off the table as the fat head of Steve's cock finds his prostate. 

"Did I find your sweet spot, sugar?" Steve grinds out, repeating the action, and Bucky wails, tears welling in his eyes, the sensation too much.

"Steve, _Steve,_ please —" Bucky sobs, scrubbing his head on the table.

"It's okay, sweet thing, gonna give you my knot now, need you to take it, need you to milk it for me." Steve lifts his hand from Bucky's throat and wrenches the writhing body to his, bringing them flush, giving one last, brutal thrust, driving his knot past the spasming ring, coming with a feral growl.

Bucky whimpers as the first pulses of come spill inside him. Warm and thick, Steve's seed flows into him, and he lets his head fall to the side, closing his eyes, mewling softly, lifting his hand to rub over his belly, feeling the slight swell of Steve's come distending him from within.

Steve's large hand covers his. "Told you I was gonna fill you, sugar. Gonna fuck you till I'm dry, and you're so full of my come your belly is nice and round, so full it's leaking out of you." 

Color blooms bright over Bucky's skin. He hadn't imagined Steve would be so uninhibited, talkative… so foul-mouthed. He fucking _loves_ it. He's never played the part of the submissive omega, never been in a position where he felt _safe_ enough to. The realization that he trusts Steve enough to submit unfurls inside him slowly, warm and slow like fresh honey. He's jarred from the lazy feeling as Steve's fingers press around his hole again, emptying himself more rapidly.

"You don't have to do that," Bucky gasps. "I like being full of you... connected to you." His cheeks heat at giving voice to the admission, feeling too vulnerable to meet Steve's gaze.

"I know, sweetheart, but I need _more_ , need to keep fucking into you, filling you, _breeding_ you."

Bucky's cock jolts at the words, throbbing painfully, trying to refill too soon after emptying, and he grabs the base and squeezes, trying to control the flow.

He knows it's just the rut talking, the need —he _knows_ — but logic can't dull the sharp edges of overwhelming _yearning_ that slices through him. He can imagine his belly, round and full of pups — _Steve's pups._ The fantasy burns through him, filling his cock, making his ass clench down tighter on Steve. For now, _just for now_ , he can dream, he can pretend...

Bucky lifts his hand from his cock, reaching down to where they're joined, pressing his fingers deep against his own skin, where Steve's knot is pulsing. He curls his fingers, squeezing, milking Steve into his body. 

"Yeah," Bucky says breathlessly, the pressure on his rim easing as Steve's knot begins to wane. "Put your pups in me, Alpha. Want 'em in my belly."

Steve growls Bucky's name before leaning down and mouthing wetly over his jaw, the scrape of his beard roughing the sensitive skin of Bucky's neck, and he knows he's going to be red raw tomorrow, _marked_ for all the world to see. 

Steve pulls free from his body, but Bucky doesn't have time to mourn the loss before two thick fingers are sliding into him, brushing over his prostate, making him gasp and bow off the table.

"Gonna make you _mine,"_ Steve's breath ghosts over his ear as his fingers curl inside Bucky before pulling out. 

Steve lifts his hand, glistening wetly in the dim light, covered with a mix of his own come and Bucky's slick. Bucky whimpers as the wet fingers dip to wrap around the head of his cock, sliding down in one firm stroke before cupping his balls, and rolling them through slick fingers, making Bucky writhe under the attention. 

"Steve?" Bucky's question is a moan as the large hand comes to rub low over his belly, smearing the mess already coating his skin through the dark hair there before lifting and returning to his sloppy hole.

"Give me your hands, sweetheart," Steve murmurs, his fingers curling and withdrawing once more. 

Bucky complies, his heart beating into his throat as Steve's slippery fingers paint one wrist, then the other… scent-marking him. 

" _Mine,_ " Steve rumbles, gripping both Bucky's hands in one of his, lifting them, and placing them above his head.

Bucky keeps his arms in place, shivering as Steve plunges his fingers into him again, scooping more of their mixed mess from his body and spreading it over his armpit, coating the hair there before raking his fingers down over his ribs, making him squirm away from the touch.  
  
By the time Steve repeats the action on his other side, Bucky's cock is full again — the act of Steve marking him, Steve _claiming_ him, if only for the night, enough to make him strain and leak on his belly. He bears down as Steve's fingers take from him once more, whimpering when Steve lifts his hand, the milky mixture running down clear to his wrist.

" _Mine,"_ Steve murmurs as he drags his fingers up Bucky's neck to the scent gland behind his ear, smearing a sticky trail across the rise of his adam's apple to the other gland. He leans into Bucky's space, nostrils flaring wide, his too-long lashes fluttering down to kiss his cheeks. Only once he's released the breath, slow and steady, do his eyes open, fixing on Bucky's. His gaze doesn't waver as his hand slips down between Bucky's thighs one more time. 

Wet fingers lift and rub over Bucky's lower lip. "Open up for me, baby."

Bucky's lips part instinctively, the weight of Steve's fingers pressing down on his tongue making his head spin. The bittersweet taste coats his mouth as he sucks at Steve's fingers greedily, his tongue working them over eagerly, memorizing the shape, the texture, the _feel_ , sucking long after every trace of Steve has been ferried to his belly.

"Shit, Bucky," Steve breathes, eyes black with desire as he slides his fingers free, shushing Bucky's mewling protests, "Just look at you, baby, so eager, so fucking perfect. Wanna feel those lips wrapped around my cock later, but I need your tight little hole sucking at me right now. You want another knot, don't you, sweetheart?"

Bucky nods, becoming aware of the deep ache in his legs when Steve lifts them from his shoulders. He flexes his feet, stretching his calves out as Steve lowers them, tugging them around his waist, reaching to press them behind his back. 

"Lock them 'round me, Bucky. Yeah, that's it. Gonna take you to the bedroom, sweet thing. Want you to ride me. Wanna watch you bounce on my thighs before you sit on my knot."

"Fuck, _Steve,"_ Bucky groans as those beautiful, strong hands fix on his hips, lining him up before pulling them back together. His breath catches as his body opens for Steve's cock, welcoming him home. _"Please."_

"What do you want, Bucky? Gotta ask for it, baby." Steve slides his arms under Bucky's ass, taking his weight and lifting him from the table. Bucky hums happily and locks his arms around Steve's neck. 

"Want _you, Steve,"_ Bucky purrs, his head lolling onto a broad shoulder as he's carried in powerful arms toward the bedroom. _All of you,_ the small voice whispers inside his mind. _Forever._

  
# . . .

  
Disorientation washes over Bucky as he blinks, eyes fixing on the only light in the room, a glowing rectangle softly silhouetting the drawn blinds. He scrubs the back of his hand over his tired lids, trying to dissolve the grit lurking beneath. Fatigue presses in on him. He feels like he hasn't slept a wink, but… he must have, or he wouldn't be waking now. He stares at the band of light, a flush burning up his neck as he remembers being perched on thick thighs, embracing the now-familiar knot deep inside his hole before exhaustion had finally claimed him. He'd been woken three more times during the night with Steve's hands, his mouth, his cock. Every time, desperate to push inside his body like Steve was a junkie and Bucky his favorite fix, just needing and taking. 

He stretches lazily, grimacing at the cotton sheets shift with him, sticking to his body. He sweeps an arm out beside him, the cool sheets drawing his focus. He twists to the side, frowning at the tangle of sheets strewn across the empty space.

"Steve?"

Silence is Bucky's only answer, filling the room and his head, making his ears ring as he strains to listen for any noise that will contradict the fears rising in the back of his mind. Shaky hands peel the sheet from his skin as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the ache in his muscles as he pushes to his feet. Trepidation turns his motions tremulous as he makes his way through the apartment, checking each room for Steve.

Standing naked in the lounge room, by the wall where he'd first seen Steve yesterday, Bucky wraps shaking arms around himself, his heart sinking to his bare feet. He knew the fantasy had to come to an end; he just hadn't expected it to end like _this._

The cold air sheathes his skin, sinking in and settling in his bones. A shiver rolls through him, rattling his teeth, shaking his resolve. He knew the fantasy had to end, but he hadn't expected Steve to disappear as if he'd never existed, like the night they'd spent together wasn't worth a goodbye.

The ache in his heart wells up, filling his eyes and spilling over, and he wipes the tears away angrily with the back of his hand. He bends to grab his shirt from the floor and pulls it over his head roughly, shoving his hands through the armholes as he moves toward the table to retrieve his pants. Bucky's legs tremble, threatening to give out as he pulls on his pants, the now-dried fabric scraping at his skin. The evidence of his lust, of Steve's, has dried on the table, and Bucky runs his hand over the marks, their mixed scents still lingering in the air.

Maybe it's better this way. Maybe Steve is showing him a kindness, not wanting to make it awkward. Or, maybe Steve thought he was going to get clingy and wanted to avoid a scene, to avoid having to let him down gently if Bucky expressed interest in more than just the one night stand. Or, maybe… maybe Steve had just taken what he'd wanted and left the rest. 

Bucky walks to the door in a daze, heart heavy, head low. His feet find their way down the steps to his apartment on autopilot, the click of his lock sliding home echoes in the silence like a death knell, the sound of his dreams dying, of his heart breaking. 

On leaden legs, he stumbles to the shower, shedding his clothes like he wishes he could shed his skin, feeling and smelling Steve staining him still. A flip of the wrist has the bathroom filling with steam, fogging the air around him as he climbs under the water, letting it scorch his aching body. Bucky ducks his head under the stream, but this time, when his tears spill over, he just lets them fall.


	7. If Symptoms Persist...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I really want to say a HUGE thank you to everyone that has kudos’d this fic, but especially, _especially_ those of you that have commented on it. This story has become some kind of strange and wonderful hive-mind thing that I really cannot tell you how much I’ve enjoyed creating it _with_ you. You’ve all given me so much motivation and inspiration... your questions and comments and theories have pushed this story into an entirely different direction than it was heading in the beginning — a better one, in my opinion. As it stands, the comments on the last chapter have added another two chapters to the count because I couldn't fight off the plot bunnies. So, thank you for that (and the million tiny bunny bite marks). I just.. <3 <3 <3 and appreciate you all so much.
> 
> ii. Since this thing is going to spawn a sequel and possibly a remix/rewrite with Steve’s POV. I am going to throw it up in a series so anyone interested can subscribe to it. But! I need a name for it. My first 3am idea was _Sugar Cookies and Candy Canes_ , but when I woke up at 5am it didn’t seem as hilarious as it did at 3. So! I’m mining the hive-mind again. If anyone’s got any ideas, feel free to toss ‘em my way. 
> 
> iii. Chapter count has been updated and is firm unless you guys set the bunnies on me again.
> 
> iv. If you are missing ao3 emails, please be sure to check you've read Chapter 6 (the filthy, filthy swamp o' smut) before this one, or you're going to be very confused!
> 
> iv. As always, I love interactions with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussion-y here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.

Fork clamped between his lips, Bucky glares daggers toward the loud, insistent pounding coming from his door.

"Seriously, Barnes, if you don't let me in within the next thirty seconds, I'm going to brûlée your door."

Bucky weighs his options. On the one hand, it would take considerably less effort to drag his ass off the couch and let Nat in, then to drag his ass around the building, apologizing to all of his neighbors for whatever very loud, very public display she has planned after the fact.

He pulls the fork from his mouth, plops it back into the half-empty foil tray and sets it on the coffee table in front of the couch. He loves Nat, really, but he knows what she's going to say, and he just wants to wallow for a while longer before he pulls himself together and gets on with his life. His alpha-less life. His Steve-less life. Alone.

"James Buchanan Barnes, you're down to ten seconds! Ten… nine… eight…"

Bucky doesn't even try to stop the irritated huff that morphs into a groan as he hauls his body from the well-worn cushion. Tugging the edges of his blanket more tightly around his shoulders, he lets it drape onto the floor behind him, trailing like a cloak as he trudges toward the noise. The click of the lock disengaging hasn't faded from his ears before the door is swinging open, and his best friend is storming through. He winces as it slams behind her.

"You haven't replied to any of my texts for the past two days. I thought you were dead."

Ignoring the mock-diatribe, Bucky makes his way back to the two-seater, sinks into the him-shaped dent on the couch. Rearranging his blanket around him in a make-shift cocoon, he crosses his legs, tucking his feet under his thighs before reclaiming the foil tray from the table.

Nat plops down to the seat next to him, folding her feet under her ass before cocking her head to the side, staring at him assessingly. "Wow. You look like shit."

"Thanks," Bucky mumbles, grimacing. He doesn't try to object; he knows it's true. The only shower he's had in the past two days was after… Well. And given the number of times he'd been revisiting memories of that night with his fist, he's quite overdue. He's not sure why Nat isn't commenting on the scent of spent lust clinging to his skin and fogging the whole apartment, but he's grateful nonetheless. He lifts the fork and twirls it between his fingers.

"Is that… _frozen, store-bought_ cheesecake?" Nat's asks, aghast.

The strawberry-red topping drips down the pale sides of the dessert, and his dark mood dredges up grotesque thoughts before he spears it with his fork and ferries it to his mouth. He nods to Nat, smushing the pasty filling around in his mouth. "Mhm." The texture is chalky, still half-frozen, but comfort food isn't meant to be good, just comforting, and he takes comfort in the fact the bad food is making him feel worse.

"Okay, spill. Tell me what happened."

Nat arches a perfectly-plucked brow and waits. It's hardly waterboarding, but the minute Bucky opens his mouth to tell her he's fine, the irrefutable, inescapable truth that he's _not_ fine breaks something deep inside him. The whole sordid story comes tumbling from his lips like floodwaters over a spillway, and he's powerless to hold back; Everything from the moment he'd caught sight of Steve, the meeting at the clinic, the breakfast, the seedings, to that one, perfect night and the devastating morning after.

"...So, now I'm having a wake for my stupid, short-lived crush, mourning the death of my fantasies." He shovels another forkful into his mouth, morosely.

Nat is quiet for a moment, her red nails raking over dark jeans before humming thoughtfully. "I hate to break it to you, Buckaroo, but it sounds like a lot more than just a crush. It sounds like you're well on your way to falling for Knot Boy, M.D."

Swallowing harshly, he shakes his head. "I —" he starts, but snaps his mouth closed, the truth of Nat's words punching him in the chest. He drops the fork back to his lap and scrubs a hand down his face. "I know."

"Have you thought about actually, oh, I don't know, trying to _talk_ to him about it? He _is_ a doctor, right? Maybe he had to rush away because he had an emergency. Why don't you march up to his apartment, knock on the door, and find out where you stand instead of trying to drown yourself in empty carbs?"

"He wanted to avoid the awkward morning after moment so much he left _his own apartment_ so he wouldn't have to see me. He knows where I live but hasn't so much as stopped by, or slipped a _'thanks for wetting my knot'_ card under my door. From where I stand, that's a pretty clear rejection. I'm not going to compound the situation by surrendering what small shreds of dignity I have left by begging him for a post-rut post mortem."

"Dignity, huh?" Nat nods toward the empty foil tray on the coffee table. "Where did you find that, at the bottom of your first or second depression cheesecake?"

Bucky scrunches his face and pokes his tongue at Nat. "It was a two cheesecake problem."

"What was?"

Lifting a leg from his blanket burrito, Bucky uses a toe to nudge an open envelope on the table toward his best friend.

Swatting his foot away, Nat snatches up the envelope and slides out the paper within, her brows furrowing. "A bill?"

"Uh-huh. I got a letter to go in and settle my account at the clinic."

"And you think it'll go more smoothly if you're on a sugar high when you go in in case you see _him?_ _"_

Bucky scowls. "No, he won't be there. He still has a few days off. But that's not — Look at the summary of fees."

"' _1x Standard consultation, 1x AH1-O protein administration'_. Okay, so?"

"It should say two and six."

" _Six?_ In two days? Jesus, Bucky—"

Bucky waves her concern away. "It's fine. I'm fine. But, that's — it's wrong. There's either a mistake or Steve has given me a discount for…" His gut twists sourly, pushing the strawberry topping back into his throat.

"Ah." Understand lights Nat's eyes, and she grabs the fork from the thawing dessert in Bucky's lap, fills it, and pushes the scoop past her perfectly painted lips. "Not bad," she mumbles around the mouthful before swallowing. "Look, the way I see it, you have two choices. You can forget Doctor Rut, file him away into your spank bank for future heat-related requirements, and move on. Or, you can swallow some cement, harden up, and go and see him. He might be a dick and brush you off, but if he does, you'll be no worse off than option A. Who knows, he might have a perfectly plausible explanation. One option is a lot easier than the other; you just have to decide how much effort _the chance_ is worth. But Bucky, whatever you decide is fine as long as you peel your ass off this couch and have a shower, first." Nat's nose wrinkles. "You reek."

Bucky pushes the cheesecake into Nat's lap and pulls his knees to his chest, swallowing them up under the blanket before dropping his head to them with a sigh. He hates it when Nat's right.

. . .

"I'm very sorry, sir, but I can't amend the charges. Would you like to make an appointment to see the doctor to query them?"

Sure, he'll just come back in two months. Bucky grinds his teeth together and counts to ten before replying. "No, I want to settle my account now, but you've undercharged me. This isn't—"

"Bucky?"

Bucky's head jerks toward Steve's voice before his body twists to follow suit, stumbling as his feet are the last to fall in line, pivoting awkwardly. Steve takes a step forward, away from the beautiful blond omega by his side, but Bucky flings out a hand, catching the edge of the reception desk, stopping his face-plant mid-plant, and lifts his other to signal for Steve to stop.

After a beat of hesitation, Steve steps back, and the blond omega lifts his face back to the alpha, flashing a dazzling smile, ignoring Bucky as if he weren't even there. He lays a hand on Steve's navy-blue encased bicep, softly and much too familiar, as he murmurs, "Same time tomorrow?"

Sky blue eyes drag from Bucky's to focus back on the blond omega. Those plush lips, the same ones that had sucked a bruise over his scent gland two nights before, curve up as he nods down at the stranger. Trying his best to ignore the rising pressure in his head, Bucky drops both his hands to his sides, curling them into fists, using every last scrap of willpower he has not to punch the stupid, brazen omega in his stupid, chiseled jaw.

"Yeah, Pietro, that would be great."

Pietro squeezes _— fucking squeezes_— Steve's arm and Bucky scowls and jerks his head away, staring at his bill still resting on the reception desk. He plucks it up and runs his thumb across the edge for distraction, wincing as the paper slices through his skin, bright red soaking into white. It's oddly satisfying to see a physical manifestation of his pain, so unlike the open wound in his chest, bleeding out where no one can see it.

"Are you okay?"

Steve's voice draws his attention back out to find the blond has departed, but not without leaving the lingering scent of fruity arousal in his wake. Bucky wrinkles his nose. "What are you doing here? I thought you had a week off."

"I did, but uh, as it turns out, I didn't need the week, after all." The peek of skin between shirt collar and beard flushes scarlet as Steve clears his throat roughly. "Here, let me clean that up for you," he murmurs, motioning to Bucky's hand.

"No, it's... Oh." Bucky frowns down at the red trail streaking down to his wrist. He tucks his thumb into his palm and forms a fist around it, hoping to dam the flow. He's not sure when it happened, but he'd turned into a fucking human disaster at some point. It's like Steve is his personal dignity-kryptonite.

"Doctor Rogers, your two o'clock is already here," the receptionist informs him, inclining her head to an affable looking man, engrossed in a National Geographic magazine, sitting in the corner.

Steve nods towards the redhead but doesn't take his eyes off Bucky. "Thanks, Wanda. Please let Mr. Lang know I'll be with him shortly." He sweeps his hand in front of him and waits for Bucky to move.

Bucky hesitates before stepping past Steve, careful to leave a considerable buffer of space between them. Steve falls into step beside him as he makes his way to the mint and cream office. The silence is awkward, and Bucky clamps his lips together, trying to override his instinct to fill the dead air with mindless chatter. What would he say anyway? Small talk about the weather hardly seems fitting conversation with someone who had been knot-deep inside him only days ago. He settles for fidgeting with his shirt hem, and clenching his ass desperately, trying to stop his _other_ instincts that had been triggered the moment he'd heard Steve's voice.

At the door, Steve moves ahead of him and holds it open. Bucky's skin prickles with anticipation, the telltale wetness slipping between his cheeks as he steps into the room, suddenly keenly aware he'd not been in here without it ending in Steve making him come.

The door closes softly behind him, making him jump, turning to watch Steve stride to the supply cupboards by the wall. Bucky drops his gaze to his feet, pulling in slow, deep breaths, trying to will his cock to stop leaking stickily over his skin while listening to Steve rummage through draws and opening packets. When the scent of candy canes reaches his nose, he lifts his head to see Steve standing before him, eyebrows knitted together.

"Why are you at the clinic, is everything alright?"

Bucky nods, his mouth going dry. _Fuck._ He knew this would happen. One look at Steve and he's turning into the stereotypical, moony-eyed omega. He casts the grabby fingers of his brain outward, trying frantically to find the flames of anger, pain, and humiliation from two days ago, but finding nothing but ashes.

"I, uh, my bill. I came to get it fixed."

"May I?" Steve nods to Bucky's hand, still curled into a fist. Bucky pulls in a deep breath and lifts his hand, steeling himself for the contact.

The sharp scent of disinfectant burns his nose as Steve wipes gently over his wrist before moving up to his palm, working slowly to lift the red stain from his skin. A large hand comes up to cup his lightly, holding it in place. A shiver speeds down his spine, making him tremble and he winces, knowing there's no way Steve couldn't have felt it, too.

"This might sting a little," Steve murmurs before dabbing carefully at the cut.

Bucky hisses but doesn't look away, his eyes locked on Steve's hands on his — no gloves between them, just skin on skin.

"Sorry." Steve takes the wipe from Bucky's thumb and discards it into the tray on his desk before picking up the bandaid, peeling off the tabs, and smoothing it over the cut. Steve's hands linger a moment before lifting. "All done."

"Thanks," Bucky mumbles, still fighting the kaleidoscope of feelings tumbling around inside his chest, the sharpened edges slicing into him until too many emotions are bleeding out into a muddy mix he can't put name to.

"So, your bill?" Steve prompts.

"Oh, yeah." Bucky lifts the folded paper, frowning at the red spot on the top before holding it out to Steve. "There's been a mistake."

Bucky's eyes follow Steve's hand as it stretches out toward the offered sheet. Thick fingers land next to his and another shiver dances down his spine, remembering where those fingers had been the last time they were together, remembering the feel of them marking him. Heat creeps up his neck as his fingers tingle, and Bucky stares at the whisper of space between his skin and Steve's, half-expecting volts of electricity to arc between them like the human equivalent of a plasma ball.

"I'll take care of it," Steve says, sliding the bill from between Bucky's fingers.

Bucky blinks himself out of his thoughts, focusing on the paper now curled in Steve's hand. "Uh, when? I just, I'd like to do everything at once while I'm here if possible." He does _not_ want to have to come back and risk running into Steve again. His waning willpower can only hold for so long.

"Don't worry about it. It wasn't supposed to go out to you in the first place. I'll take care of it."

"That's not — _no_. That's exactly the opposite of…" Bucky bites off the words, scrubbing his hands through his hair, tugging the suddenly irritating, unruly locks, still damp from his shower, up into a messy bun, snapping the elastic from his wrist around the strands to secure them in place. "Look, I asked the receptionist to fix the charges to include both visits and all six sessions, but she said you had to do it, and I just… I would feel a lot better if you could put what I actually owe you on the bill, so it doesn't feel like you gave me a discount for, I don't know, _services rendered_ , like some strange sexual barter system," Bucky blurts, the temperature in his cheeks rising right along with his anger levels.

"Bucky, I would _never_ …" Steve reaches toward Bucky but stops himself, curling his fingers back in on themselves and dropping his hand to his side. "You were only charged for one standard session because, according to the system, that's all you had; that's all the emergency appointment was scheduled for." Steve's voice is flat, all emotion smothered under a blanket of professional distance. "There's no way to retroactively slot you into the system where there were no available appointments."

"I don't understand. There _were_ appointments, I remember, I was here."

Steve looks down at his hand, at the paper crumpling in his fist. He loosens his grip and places the bill on the desk, smoothing it out before shoving both hands into his pants pockets. "That first day, you were scheduled for a standard, twenty-minute appointment. It's why I had to keep leaving you; I had to see my other patients while you were receiving the protein. The second day I had no available appointments, so I brought you in with me before the clinic was open."

Bucky blinks stupidly at Steve, his mouth opening and closing mutely while his mind spins in dizzying spirals, trying to fit the new puzzle pieces into the already-constructed picture in his head. "But… why would you do that?"

Steve's brows pinch together, a shadow of confusion passing over his face. "Because you needed it."

The answer is so simple and earnest and expected… and soul-crushing. What had he been expecting? A declaration of everlasting love? No matter how he looks at it, it all boils down to Steve just doing his job, being a good doctor — that's all it ever was, and it's all it would have ever been if Bucky had left well enough alone. He had just been a willing port in a storm of lust, and now the weather has cleared, and Steve has moved on. And now Bucky needs to, as well. He squares his shoulders, remembering that's the reason he'd come in to the clinic today. Seeing Steve had been an unintended hitch in his plan, but he's not going to let it derail him completely.

"Um, thank you for that. But If you _could_ find a way to, I don't know, schedule me in for a future appointment and charge me for the right amount of sessions or something," Bucky says with a shrug. "Oh, and then, uh, cancel them after you've made the invoice. I know what you said, um, about me seeing another doctor—" Bucky's cheeks prickle, and he rubs his hand low over his belly distractedly, remembering the feel of Steve emptying deep inside him, "—but I know that was, uh, just… so, I think it's a good idea," he stammers, wanting to drag his gaze away from Steve's, but unable to break the connection.

Steve's eyes narrow before dropping to Bucky's hand, still resting low on his belly. "Bucky," he draws out slowly, "why did you come into the clinic today?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said you wanted to do _everything_ while you were here, all at once. Did you have an appointment for… for something?"

Three sharp raps on the door sound a split-second before it swings open, and Bucky has never been more grateful for an interruption in his life. Steve's nostrils flare before he takes two steps forward, angling himself between Bucky and the door, his body stiffening, blocking Bucky's view of the newcomer.

"Hey, Steve, I— oh… down boy, it's just me."

Steve's shoulders drop, but he doesn't move from his position. "Whatever this is, it will have to wait, Clint. I'm busy."

"Well, what a coincidence, I'm supposed to be busy, too, but Wanda so helpfully informed me that you have my two-thirty."

"Your two— what?"

"My two-thirty appointment. Mister Barnes, is it? I'm Clint Barton, your much less attractive but much more competent doctor for this afternoon," Clint says cheerily, leaning around the Steve-shaped shield and smiling. "If Steve here is done doing...whatever it is he's doing, I'll show you to my office and we can get started."

"No, we're not—" Steve starts before a new, harassed voice cuts him off.

"I'm sorry, Boss, but Mr. Lang is asking how long you'll be. He has to pick his daughter up soon and wants to know if he needs to reschedule." Wanda pokes her head around Clint, eyes darting between the three of them with open curiosity and Bucky's cheeks flood with heat. Being the center of attention has never been his favorite position.

"Sorry, Wanda, tell him I'll only be a—"

Bucky steps around Steve, edging toward Clint, careful to avoid touching both of them. "No, tell him now is fine, I was just leaving." The smile on his lips is tight, but he angles it toward Steve anyway. "I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time. If you could fix the bill for me—"

"Bucky, wait—"

"Stop trying to poach my patients, Rogers, and worry about your own," Clint chuckles. "Relax, he's in good hands. I'll take care of him."

Bucky throws one last look at Steve over his shoulder as he follows Clint from the office. The clenched jaw and stormy eyes chasing him from the room are going to haunt his dreams, but it eases the lingering doubts in the back of his mind that he's making a mistake. No, his only mistake had been thinking he could have his one night with Steve without consequences, but all that's left for him now is to try and mitigate the fallout as best he can... and pray it works.


	8. Side Effects May Include...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. If you're following me on tumblr, you've already had a little tease from this chapter. I hope it didn't spoil that particular surprise for you too much!
> 
> ii. To the lovely beta beepbeepromanoff who threw their eyes over this for me, I thank you very much for your time and enthusiasm! (I couldn't resist, and went back and fiddled with things, so all remaining mistakes are my own!) And to Ferret who threw my crushing self-doubt out the window, you are a rockstar and I luff you.<3
> 
> iii. I've started making silly lil story posters to go with my fics, so if you're interested (and didn't come here from tumblr) feel free to bounce back to the first chapter to take a look at my headcanon for Doctor Steve and Bucky. Do they match the ones in your head? Gifs and images of your headcanon for these guys are gladly received.
> 
> iv. As always, I love interaction with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussion-y here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.
> 
> ⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

Bucky pauses to readjust the plastic carrier boxes stacked five-high in his hands, nudging them gently with a raised knee and tucking his fingers more securely beneath them.

He mutters an apology as he bumps into a vaguely human-shaped obstacle before changing course, making a beeline for the large table in the middle of the apartment. He reaches his destination without further incident —a small miracle given the number of bodies padding the room— and sets the containers down beside the table, already decorated with striped pastel pink and baby blue tablecloths, held in place by giant novelty baby blocks in matching colors. 

When Darcy had first approached him about catering the baby shower she was throwing for her best friend, Bucky had been happy to take the job. But that was before he'd fallen for Steve, Steve had fallen into bed with Darcy, and Darcy had changed the commission to a gender reveal shower the day before the party. He'd spent all day yesterday and into the early hours of this morning baking and decorating a three-tier cake complete with a hidden blue center and cupcakes to match, sugar cookies with alternating pink and blue icing designs, and theme-appropriate macarons, all while fighting waves of nausea from hell.

But he has baked and decorated and carted everything up here, so all that's left to do is set up the display and get back to his own apartment before Darcy shows up... or he throws up.

Ignoring the rolling of his stomach, Bucky pries the lids from the containers and starts working on autopilot while his mind wanders.

He knows he shouldn't be jealous of Darcy; he has slept with Steve, too — _ after  _ Darcy, even. But he can't quite decide if that makes him feel better or worse. Knowing her night with Steve hadn't been driven by rut-lust definitely makes it worse...  _ she  _ probably didn't have to beg.

"Do you need a hand?"

Steve's voice behind him makes Bucky jerk forward, and his hips bump into the table, causing the cupcake stands wobble alarmingly. Only a familiar, warm grip on his elbow steadying him stops the catastrophe before it happens, guiding him away from the table until his back collides with the hard wall of Steve's chest. Bucky's sharp inhale of surprise fills his nose and lungs with the potent scent of Steve, not covered by blockers, and his knees nearly give out. Again.

"Shit, sorry!" Bucky rasps, amazed at his ability to form words at all with the way Steve's  _ everything _ is pressing against him.

The hand on his elbow falls away as Bucky spins on his toes toward Steve, realizing his mistake instantly. He's too close —much,  _ much  _ too close— he should have taken a step forward first. His nipples catch on the soft fabric of his shirt as they drag across the seemingly endless expanse of Steve's much broader chest, and he clamps his lips together just in time to stop his breathy little gasp shuddering into a desperate moan. Each quick inhale through his mouth pressess his chest harder against Steve's, his nipples pebbling into achingly hard peaks with the prolonged contact, and Bucky bites down on his tongue to keep the whimpers trapped behind his lips. Already making a mess of his favorite jeans and genuinely concerned about going off like a rocket without so much as a touch, he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a step back, needing to dilute the inescapable  _ alphaness  _ enveloping him. 

When Bucky drags his eyes open again, Steve is still near enough for Bucky to see the thick vein snaking up Steve's neck thumping erratically, and his mouth waters, remembering the feel of it under his tongue. But Steve is looking at him expectantly, and Bucky blinks stupidly, trying to herd his errant thoughts and libido back into line.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I asked if you needed a hand." Steve nods toward the table though his eyes never leave Bucky's. "With setting up."

Bucky rubs a hand over the telltale heat creeping up his neck. He would love Steve to give him a hand, just not where Steve's offering. Swallowing the thought and associated images roughly, he finds himself nodding at the same moment he hears himself saying, "Yes."

The smile Steve flashes him is dazzling, like the sun breaking through the clouds on a rainy day, and Bucky stares mutely at him for a moment, transfixed, wondering what those perfect, pearly whites would feel like sinking into the base of his neck. The wetness slipping between his asscheeks at the thought is enough to bring his brain back online, and he squirms uncomfortably.

"I, uh, I mean, you don't have to. You probably want to—" Bucky gestures around the room as he takes another step out of Steve's space, needing some non-Steve scented air "—mingle," he finishes weakly.

"I'm not a huge fan of mingling," Steve whispers conspiratorially before bending to collect a container of macarons. Large fingers make the treats look tiny as he places them, side-up, on a pink plate on the table, alternating pink then blue, just as Bucky had them arranged in the box. "Are you staying once you're done setting up?" Steve asks tentatively, eyes remaining focused on his task.

"Uh, no. This is  _ not  _ my idea of a good time," Bucky remarks dryly, placing the last two cupcakes on the stand before turning to survey the crowd. Even if he had been invited, guests crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, filling what little breathing room there is with grating, fake laughter, and air kisses upon greeting is not a party he'd attend.

Steve sets down the now-empty macaron box and carefully lifts the three-layer reveal cake from its carrying container and places it on the table before he hums thoughtfully. Taking in the pink and blue swirling mirror glaze and shards of tempered chocolate protruding from the top of the cake like an edible crown, Steve asks softly, "Then what is?"

Bucky releases his trapped breath and throws a furtive glance in Steve's direction. Steve had made zero eye contact since he'd begun helping, and there's a tension thrumming through his muscular body, palpable alertness betraying his would-be casual movements, like a deer caught in a hunter's scope, ready to dart out of the line of fire. But why would  _ Steve  _ be cagey around _ him? _ At their last meeting, it had been Steve sporting the scowly face and dark energy; if anything, Bucky should be the one on tenterhooks.

He ducks his head to hide his grimace, covering by reaching for the container of sugar cookies, the last treats left to add to the table. Is Steve testing the waters, seeing if Bucky's going to make a scene? As if connected by an invisible pulley, his heart sinks as he pushes his lips up at the corners, the best approximation of a smile he can manage given the circumstances. If he's going to be running into Steve at the clinic and around the building, they're going to have to get past this awkwardness. Maybe they could even become friends. ...After he's dealt with his little problem, of course. But until then, Bucky can bullshit with the best of them.

"Well," he draws out slowly, "it's usually still food-related but with a lot fewer people; cook-outs with friends, or popcorn at the movies, being curled up on the couch watching Netflix with something sugary. Boring stuff."

"Sounds perfect, actually. But you know—" Steve finally turns to look at Bucky "—if you put candy on top of the popcorn it melts, and then you get—"

"Sweet and salty." Bucky stares at Steve, his hand freezing, cookie raised halfway to the table, his thumb marring the pink icing. "Nat, um, my best friend thinks I'm weird for doing that."

Steve's smile spouts on his lips and blooms across his whole face, crinkling his eyes and making him look like all his Christmases have come at once. "Not weird; _ inspired _ ." He nods toward Bucky's hand. "Speaking of sweet, are those your famous sugar cookies?"

"I'd hardly call them famous," Bucky mumbles, cheeks burning as he places the cookie on the awaiting plate with its friends.

"If they're half as good as your pancakes, they should be."

"You're far too easily impressed," Bucky scoffs. 

"And you're incapable of taking a compliment."

Bucky hums thoughtfully, unable to call Steve's truth a lie. He's always been better at giving praise than receiving it. Well... in _ most  _ situations, at least. In  _ clothed  _ situations. Bucky throbs, leaking messily as he remembers the growled praises that had him whimpering in Steve's arms, desperate to be so good for the alpha, wanting to hear more honeyed words dripping from those plush lips. But there's no way he's about to add that little caveat. He shakes his head, trying to clear it more than to signal his disagreement. "They make me itchy."

"Like poison ivy? Because I can give you something for that," Steve teases.

"More like a too-tight sweater. Do you have a prescription for that?" Bucky shoots back with an arched brow.

"Mhm, as it so happens, I do; immersion therapy. A day of nothing but compliments to get you desensitized to them. In fact, we can start right now." Steve's eyes twinkle mischievously, and Bucky has to forcibly remind himself to breathe because  _ holy fuck _ . "You are an  _ incredible  _ chef, Bucky. Those pancakes are the second sweetest thing I've had in my mouth."

"Wow, great idea, Doctor Steve. Is showering me with runner-up compliments the best you can do, or are you building up to the real deal?" Bucky grins despite himself. The awkwardness between them fades beneath the brilliant glow of reignited chemistry, and Bucky suddenly remembers why he is in the mess he's in — it's not the mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex... okay, it's not _ only  _ the mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex, but it's also because Steve, even with his clothes on, is all 31 flavors of perfection in Bucky's eyes. "Alright, I'll bite... what was the sweetest thing you've ever tasted?"

Steve's only answer is the narrowing of his eyes, black eclipsing blue, and a small, rakish smile dancing on those sinful lips before a moist flash of pink swipes between them.

" _ Oh.  _ " The memory of Steve's mouth on his skin makes Bucky's whole body flush. Like ink in water, desire fogs his brain, clouding over, lust shrouding reason. He wants to step to Steve, close the distance, and finally,  _ finally _ see what Steve's mouth tastes like. It's the thought that burns through the desire.  _ Why _ hadn't Steve kissed him that night? He'd done everything else besides. His confusion breaks the spell, small doubts growing, expanding outward like ripples on a pond. What game is Steve playing at? Is it a test or a trick or a joke? Or is Steve looking to get his knot wet again, and figured since Bucky had been so willing last time...? Maybe he wants to upgrade their...  _ friendship  _ into the  _ with benefits  _ category. 

Two options lay themselves at Bucky's feet. He can flirt back, possibly end up in _ with benefits-land _ , and deal with the inevitable heartache that will come of falling deeper in love with Steve when all Steve wants is to fall into bed. But given the amount of pain he's already suffering at the fallout from a single night together, he's not sure he'll survive even one more. Resigned realization solidifies inside him: He doesn't want Steve in that way if he can't have  _ all  _ of him, and in a game of all or nothing, that leaves him with...

Squaring his shoulders in an effort to keep himself from crumbling under the crushing weight of his choice, Bucky takes a deep breath. "You don't have to do that, you know. To pretend it was anything other than what it was," he murmurs. He turns the last sugar cookie over in his hands, his eyes fixed on the way the edible glitter shines as it spins — a pretty reward for his cowardice of not being able to meet Steve's eyes.

"And what was it?" All traces of teasing have disappeared from Steve's voice.

"Uh, two friends helping each other out." Bucky hates the question in his voice, the hesitation, and hates even more how much he wants Steve to deny the statement, to say it was so much more than that... that it _ is  _ so much more than that.

But Steve doesn't deny it; he only questions it, and the threads of hope tugging in Bucky's chest snap, and his heart crashes back down into its bony cage, painfully. 

"Friends. Is that what we are?" Steve's voice is so soft Bucky has to strain to pick out the words over the increasing noise of the party.

"Well, I'm not your patient anymore, and we're not dating, but I don't think acquaintances know each other so...  _ intimately _ . So, yeah, I guess. Friends sound a lot better than..." Bucky trails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. Meaningless sex? A regretful one night stand? A mistake. His gaze falls to his hands, and he holds out the cookie to Steve with only slightly trembling fingers. "Here, as a friend of the caterer, you get the first cookie of the day. Just, uh, don't judge me on that one. I've been feeling a bit off lately, and they were a last-minute rush-job, so the quality may be a little lacking."

Steve takes the offered treat and stares down at it, though Bucky can tell his mind is on something other than baking. His jaw clenches and unclenches three times before he drags his eyes up to Bucky's face. "Bucky—"

Irrational panic wraps its hand around Bucky's throat; he can't bear to hear Steve tell him that  _ friendship _ isn't what he's after. He grabs another cookie, a pink one, and holds it out to Steve. "And maybe take one for your date."

Steve's head snaps up. "I — my date?"

"Don't people usually bring a plus one to these kinds of things?" Bucky scans the crowd, unable to hold Steve's gaze. Suddenly, what had started as a distraction quickly morphs into actual curiosity. "Maybe that blond omega I saw you with at the clinic? He seemed… nice."  _ Shut up, shut up, shut up.  _ The little voice of reason and restraint in the back of his mind is screaming at him, each word increasing in volume as it reverberates around his skull, but he can't stop himself. All at once faced with the prospect of Steve having a date, Bucky wants —no,  _ needs  _ — to know. He needs to know if Steve is dating someone.  _ That  _ someone — a patient. A patient that's not him. 

But Steve's brow furrows, and he blinks slowly as if trying to remember who Bucky is talking about, and, god, if Steve can't even remember who he had been flirting with not forty-eight hours before, Bucky may have seriously misjudged the situation.

"You know, surfer hair, chiseled jaw…"  _ Smells like Froot Loops and probably as dumb as a box of rocks. _

"Pietro?" Steve chuckles softly. "No, he's a patient." His head bobs to the side. "Kind of. It's a long story."

"The kind of long story  _ I _ would be?" As soon as the words are out of Bucky's mouth, his cheeks burn as hot as his jealousy, and he drops his gaze to his feet. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have — it's none of my business what you're doing and who you're doing it with." He starts to turn away, but a large hand wraps around his wrist and stops him.

"You think I'm..." Steve's eyes darken, and he releases Bucky's wrist, staring at it for a long moment before he raises anguished eyes to Bucky's face. "No, the kind that's coming in for fertility treatments. Technically, Clint isn't allowed to administer them since he's Pietro's husband, so I'm his doctor of record. I sign off on all the paperwork even though all I do is oversee the procedures." He steps closer, lowering his voice, now just loud enough to reach Bucky's ear. "Bucky, what happened between us, I've never— I  _ know  _ I should never have allowed you to stay that night. It was a mistake, and I am so sorry that I— "

The rest of Steve's words are drowned out by the blood rushing in Bucky's ears. His whole body flashes hot and cold, sweat pushes through his skin before chilling immediately, making him shiver. His stomach rolls sickeningly and he drops the cookie back on the plate before flattening his palm against his belly. "I — uh, I'm sorry, excuse me," he blurts before throwing his free hand over his mouth, spinning on his heel, and sprinting toward the bathroom.

One of the gods Bucky is silently yet fervently praying to takes pity on him, and he makes it to the bathroom before he drops to his knees in front of the toilet and heaves. 

Scraping the foul taste from his tongue with his teeth, he spits the thickened cheesecake-flavored saliva from his mouth before pulling some toilet paper and scrubbing it over his lips.

"Are you alright?"

Bucky groans, crossing his hands over the seat and dropping his head onto them, turning his face toward Steve, now standing in the doorway. "Yeah. Something in my body just really hates me." He turns his face back into the appropriate position as his stomach rolls again.

A soft click signals the door closing, and it's the only thing Bucky hears before Steve's hand is rubbing soothing circles over his back. It's so much like that first day in the clinic, his eyes sting under his squeezed lids. God, everything had been so much simpler then. Why hadn't he just accepted his fate and kept Steve in his fantasies? Getting his heart involved had been the beginning of the end. He knew no good could come of it, but he had convinced himself he could handle it. ...He'd been wrong.

"Has this been happening for long?"

Bucky scrubs his head against his arms, messing the tendrils of hair that have worked their way free from his ponytail, now clinging to the beads of sweat peppering his temple. "Very new."

"I have some anti-nausea medicine in my apartment. I could go and grab it if you'd like."

"Nuh-uh. I'm not sure what's safe to have with, um, ah—" Bucky rocks forward on his knees, cringing at the noises echoing around the bathroom as he empties more of his stomach contents into the porcelain bowl.

Concern radiates from Steve's body like heat waves from a furnace, building and  _ building _ until the hand on his back stills but doesn't lift. "Bucky, are you p—" The words break and fall away, and a heavy silence chases Steve's sigh. Glad to have his face hidden, despite the reason, Bucky groans softly as his belly cramps, and Steve's hand starts moving in lazy loops on his back again. "Are you positive you're okay? Maybe I should take a look at you?"

"No, it's okay, I'm fine. I, uh, I know what it is, and I already have an appointment to deal with it." Bucky finally lifts his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand; his nausea finally starting to ease. "But thank you for the offer."

The warm, reassuring weight disappears from Bucky's back, and he pushes to his feet before lowering the toilet lid and flushing away his latest humiliation. His legs tremble as he makes his way to the sink, but he pushes on, refusing to fall flat on his face in epic back-to-back displays of ultimate mortification. 

Steve's voice is soft, and Bucky barely makes it out over the rushing water as he washes his hands and rinses his mouth. "Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

A swell of soft music and excited chattering sweep into the room as the door opens. A giggly blonde with cheeks reddened by too much alcohol and an attractive beta pressing kisses to the back of her neck stumble into the small room.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here."

Bucky flushes hot again, and for a minute he's sure he's going to revisit the last of yesterday's bad food choices, but the heat settles in his belly at the display of affection, at the knowing what's about to happen in this room... this room that he's currently occupying with Steve, that under different circumstances they could be doing.

"It's fine, I was — we were just leaving." He doesn't wait for Steve before he pushes past the couple and weaves his way through the crowd, heading for the front door. 

The displays are finished, and he can grab his cheque when he comes back for the containers after the celebrating is done... after his stomach is fully emptied and Steve is safely tucked away in his — or someone else's — apartment. But right now he needs to get out of here, get some fresh air... get away from Steve.

He's out the door and making his way down the steps, almost to his apartment, when Steve's voice, as it always does, stops him in his tracks.

"Bucky, wait! We need to talk."

Wobbling alarmingly as he spins in place, Bucky grabs the railing to keep himself vertical. The look on Steve's face, coupled with those four words, has his stomach creeping back up into his throat. He can't deal with this, not yet.

"Uh, yeah, I know, but, um…" he takes a step backward, down the next stair, edging closer to the safety of his apartment. "The caterer throwing up in the client's bathroom isn't a great endorsement for the food, so I should probably go." Another step back. "And I'm still not feeling the best—" he grimaces, pressing his free hand to his belly and taking another step down "—so I'm going to go home and sit on my own bathroom floor for a while." He takes the last steps quickly, stumbling but catching himself on the rail before backtracking, stopping only when his back hits his door. "But, yeah, talk later for sure."

Without waiting for an answer, Bucky turns away from Steve and flees into his apartment. Whatever gods had smiled on him earlier have forsaken him, now — he doesn't make it more than three steps before he loses the rest of his stomach contents and the last shreds of his dignity all over his lounge room floor.


	9. Treatment Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Trigger Warning for a brief mention of abortion.
> 
> ii. There is much talking in this one, too. So you should all be happy by the end of it.. That's how it works, right? ;)
> 
> iii. As always, I love interaction with readers! Questions or comments? I'm always happy to get all discussion-y here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.
> 
> ⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

Clint's office is much the same as Steve's, but for three significant differences. One, it is lavender and cream instead of mint and cream. Two, in place of Steve's amazing ass-hugging chairs, are two rotating stools —bar stools if Bucky didn't know better. And three, it doesn't have a hulking, blond alpha that Bucky wants to climb like a tree.

"All bodies are different," Clint says, swinging back and forth on his stool, letting his knees knock on the desk before twisting back toward Bucky, then repeating the process. "So we never really know how anyone will react, but, just because one didn't work, doesn't mean that's it. There's always a Plan B. And a Plan B for Plan B. Which might be Plan C, actually." Clint pauses in his swinging to scratch his head. "But you get the idea."

"I don't mind which letter you pick, but I need to deal with this as soon as possible, it's making my life hell," Bucky mutters. He rubs a hand over his belly, trying in vain to soothe the cramps within.

"Yeah, hormones make you crazy, I know," Clint sighs. "Trust me, I really, really do," he murmurs, looking at the photo of Pietro on his desk. Bucky's belly twinges with guilt and he stares down at his hands, twisting in his lap, wondering if Clint knew about his initial assumptions. If Clint knows, he doesn't let it show as he turns his focus back to Bucky. "Alright, but this whole doctor schtick means I have to tell you—"

Three sharp knocks on the door makes Bucky jump, his nerves already on edge. Apparently, no one in this clinic knows basic room entering etiquette because not a second later, the door is swinging open to reveal his favorite tree, smelling like peppermint, looking thick enough to take Bucky's entire weight if he just flings himself at certain low-hanging fruit. _Fuck._

"Sorry to interrupt, Clint, but I need a moment with Mr. Barnes before you continue if that's okay."

"Steve, we're in the middle of an appointment." Clint frowns, his eyes saying a hell of a lot more than his mouth.

"I know, I'm sorry, I wouldn't interrupt if it weren't important. Bucky, it's about your last... seeding. It'll only take a moment if that's alright?"

"This really isn't appropriate." Clint's every syllable is brimming with disapproval, but Steve doesn't budge from his spot in the doorway.

Memories of his last seeding —in Steve's apartment, with Steve wrapped around him, inside him— burns across his cheeks and down his neck, a scarlet trail showing exactly what direction his thoughts had taken. "Uh, no, th-that's fine."

With a resigned sigh, Clint slides off his stool and ambles to the door, stopping between Bucky and Steve, his eyes bouncing between them like he's watching an invisible tennis match. "Talk quick, Rogers. I'm giving you five minutes before I'm coming back in and kicking you out. And remember what we talked about, yeah?"

The look that passes between Clint and Steve is one Bucky can't name and doesn't want to if he's honest. If the two weren't friends, Bucky would think it's the start of some strange, no-holds-barred alpha cockfight, and half expects them to bump chests and start growling at each other. But Clint steps out, Steve strides in, and the door clicks closed, leaving Bucky alone in the room with the alpha of his dreams. 

...It's his worst nightmare.

"What are you doing? How did you even know I was here?" Bucky's words are out of his mouth before his brain can form a plan of attack.

"I checked the appointment list. I'm sorry, I know that was overstepping, but when you said you'd made plans to, ah, deal with it, I knew I had to talk to you first. I realize this isn't the most appropriate way to do it, but I've tried calling you and came by your apartment after the party, but..." He shrugs. "This was a last resort."

"Oh, sorry. I kind of crashed hard last night after the whole..." Bucky's face contorts, and he sweeps his hand from his stomach up to his mouth, miming a tame version of throwing up. "I guess I didn't hear you knock, and, I uh," Bucky drops his gaze to his feet, cheeks heating further. He can hardly say he deleted Steve's number from his phone so he couldn't be tempted to call or text in the middle of the night, begging Steve to fuck him, so he settles for, "I don't answer unknown numbers, sorry."

Steve nods slowly, narrowing his eyes as if knowing his number shouldn't come up as unknown if Bucky still had it in his phone. But he doesn't push, and Bucky almost drowns in the wave of relief. 

"Look, I know this is none of my business, except that, I think, in a way it might be…" He sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair, his agitation too great to be contained within his skin, filling the room and pressing in on Bucky, making him fidget and start swiveling on his stool.

 _Oh fuck._ Does Steve know? "D-did you look at my medical records?" Bucky blanches, all heat draining from his body, leaving him feeling queasy again. "The ones from my first visit with Clint?"

"I don't have access to another doctor's notes on you now that you're no longer my patient." The honeyed gravel of Steve's usual tone is gone, a sharp edge cutting through in its place, and a sense of trepidation shudders down Bucky's spine. "I've been going around in circles since the party, and I just wish you'd told me what is happening. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. There are other options... You don't have to go through this alone."

The earnest, imploring tone of Steve's voice makes Bucky's chest ache but he steels himself against it. "Actually, the whole point of this appointment, Steve, is that I _do_ have to go through it alone."

"This is your choice, Bucky. It's your body, and I know it's your decision, but I'm willing to help, if you'd let me."

"Jesus, Steve, you're the whole reason I'm in this mess, I think you've helped me more than enough," Bucky snaps, running a hand through his hair, fingers curling tight around the strands and tugging harshly, the stinging pain in his scalp an anchor, pulling him back down out of his anger and into a boiling pit of guilt. He shouldn't take his frustrations out on Steve, the only one he's really angry at is himself. "Shit, sorry. I'm sorry, that was unfair. I just... I feel like I'm on a carousel every time I'm around you - up, down, spinning, off-balance, and it's just... driving me crazy. I can't do it. If you...help, it's just, it's going to make it worse."

Steve steps closer, his hand lifting and hesitating, before landing lightly on Bucky's shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. And you're right, it is my fault. I'm sorry." He squeezes gently before lifting his hand. "I'll tell Clint to follow your wishes, and I'll sign the required paperwork after the procedure." Steve turns away from Bucky, his footsteps heavy as he makes his way to the door.

"Wait... what procedure?"

Steve stops but doesn't look back, calling softly over his shoulder, "The abortion."

 _Abortion?_ A chill races over Bucky's skin, leaving him trembling, and he wraps his arms around himself as he shakes his head softly. "Steve, I'm... I'm _not_ pregnant."

Steve spins on the spot, the whole of his body drawn tight, shaking slightly like a deep breath held too long, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "You're not?" 

"Why would you think that?"

"The appointment, the timing, you were throwing up, and said you had a plan to deal with it…"

"No, I… it's my, uh, h-heat suppressants. They don't agree with me. Clint is going to try me on another type," Bucky stammers, but the embarrassment burning across his cheeks quickly gives way to flames of anger as Steve stumbles back two steps and sags against the door. 

Bucky bites back the defensive words coiled on the tip of his tongue just in time. Maybe Steve isn't so different from other alphas, after all. Always wanting to spray their seed into anything that moves but never wanting anything to grow. Would it be so bad if he _had been_ pregnant? It's not like he would have asked Steve for anything. The guilt in his belly returns and grows, bubbling up his throat and souring his thoughts. Given the laws benefiting the alpha parent, he knows that's not exactly true. He'd need to ask Steve's permission to do a lot of things. 

Steve straightens, pushing himself off the door and walking back toward Bucky. "Wait... you're on suppressants?"

"Yes." Bucky presses his lips together, hoping against hope that Steve will let this drop. He's not sure he'll survive another humiliation following yesterday's spectacular display.

"Why?"

"Because I need them," Bucky answers evasively.

"But your next heat isn't due for months."

"Yeah, well, my body doesn't know that," Bucky mutters darkly.

"I don't understand."

"I don't either. But it's like I'm stuck in some neverending heat cycle. I can't stop thinking about that night, about you, and my body is just… I feel like I'm going crazy. I can't keep climbing the walls, trying to find relief that I'm never going to get on my own. Normally, I would go out and find the nearest available knot, but that's not what I... I just thought maybe suppressants would, I don't know, suppress… whatever is broken inside me."

Steve's face goes slack, looking so much like he's been slapped, Bucky wishes he could reel back his words. "Why didn't you say something?"

"And be the pathetic little omega trailing after you, begging for your knot? Draping myself all over you like Darcy? No. I just— no. That's not me, Steve. ...Look, I'm not stupid, I know if I'd never walked into the clinic that day, I never would have ended up in your bed _that_ night. And you didn't even want me there," Bucky chokes out on a self-deprecating laugh that holds no humor whatsoever. "I took advantage of you. You told me to leave, repeatedly, but I begged you to let me stay. If I hadn't, you would have found someone else to manage your rut, and you'd never have known who I was, not really. I'd just be some mystery neighbor that bakes cookies that you'd pass in the stairwell occasionally and nod politely to before going on your way. And I know that's all I'll be from now on, and it's fine. I've made my peace with it... or, I will once I get my fucking body under control."

"Bucky, it's not—"

The door swings open, and Clint pokes his head into the room. "I heard raised voices. Is everything okay in here?"

"Everything's fine. We just need a few more minutes."

Clint looks from Bucky's face to Steve's and shakes his head. "I don't know what's happening here," he says slowly, giving Steve a dark look, "but you've had your five minutes. Now, I think it's best you leave, Steve. If Bucky wants to talk to you again, he knows how to reach you."

"Jesus, Barton, just one more minute!" Steve snaps.

Clint steps into the room, putting himself between Bucky and Steve. He's nowhere near as tall or broad as Steve, but the threat is clear, and Bucky finds himself leaning away from the two alphas. "I warned you about this," Clint growls, all traces of his usual joviality is gone, replaced by a sharp edge that sends an unpleasant shiver curling down Bucky's spine. "Whatever Bucky is or isn't to you, he's _my_ patient, and I have to do what's best for him. And right now, that means having you leave, willingly or not."

"Bucky, please..."

Bucky's heart withers in his chest, aching like he'd ripped it out, wrung it out, then slammed it back under his ribs. He'd laid his cards on the table, shit hand as it is. And he knows Steve deserves a chance to do the same, but he doesn't have strength enough to hear it right now. To be told it was a mistake. To have to hear _'it's not you, it's me'._ To be told Steve doesn't feel the same way. It takes every grain of fortitude he possesses to turn away from Steve and fix his eyes on the floor. He shakes his head softly.

"Goodbye, Steve."


	10. House Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
  
"I can't cook."

Bucky's mouth falls open at the sight of Steve at his door, agitated, shifting on his feet, squeezing the frame of the canvas in his hands hard enough that his knuckles are white and the wood is twisting alarmingly under the grip. Those dark bruises under his eyes are back, and his hair is messy, like he'd spent the night running his hands through it. 

...Or someone else had.

"Steve? What are you—"

"No, please. Let me just… I need to say what I came to say if that's okay? I'll stay and listen to whatever you'd like to say after, or leave straight away if that's what you want, but I need to say this."

Bucky presses his lips together tightly and nods, waiting, his curiosity and sense of panic both piqued. He wants to hear what Steve has to say, but he also wants to slam the door and run back to the comfort of his kitchen, shovel the entire stack of fresh pancakes he's in the process of making into his mouth once done, and pass out into the oblivion of a food coma. He settles for bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet and curling his fingers tighter around the door to keep himself from bolting.

"I can't cook, or _don't_ cook, I guess. I usually grab lunch from the cafe down the street when I'm at work, and dinner is picked up on the way home or ordered in once I get there. Breakfast, when it isn't the most amazing pancakes being hand-delivered by an even more amazing chef—" Bucky's cheeks heat at the praise "—is usually a protein bar or a cup of coffee. I mean, I _can_ microwave things, but with med school, I never really had the time or energy to invest in learning how to cook well, and after, it was just easier to leave it to the people who had. Uh, this isn't…" Steve runs his hand through his hair, ruffling it further, and huffs out a frustrated breath. "I went to buy you breakfast that morning. That's why I wasn't there when you woke up. There were things we needed to talk about, and I thought food, good food, food beyond my ability, would make it easier, less awkward. And I thought you needed something in your belly other than, uh..." 

Steve falters, his cheeks flushing red as he clears his throat, and Bucky takes advantage of the beat of silence, needing to know the answer to the question that had been plaguing him since he woke up alone in Steve's bed.

"Why did we need to talk?" Bucky blurts, ignoring the stinging in his own cheeks. "Is it — did I do something wrong?"

"God, no, Bucky, _I did._ I am _so_ sorry. I was selfish, and I know I… I hurt you," Steve's voice cracks, and thick lashes lower to his cheeks. "I should never have let you stay. I should have picked you up and carried you outside and locked the door. It's just… having you under my hands, against my skin, asking me to..." he shakes his head, dragging anguished eyes back up to Bucky's face. "And then I couldn't control myself, and I acted so..." Steve wrings his hand over the back of his neck as he cringes. "I'm so sorry I wasn't strong enough to do the right thing. I wanted to tell you all this that morning, but when I got back and found my bed empty, I thought that's why you left. But then at the clinic, what you said…" he trails off, and turns the canvas, lifting and extending it toward Bucky. "Here."

Bucky reaches out instinctively to take the painting as it's pressed toward him, but once it's securely in his hands, he shakes his head, holding it back out to Steve. "I can't take this."

"I want you to. Please. It's a gift."

Unable to bear the weight of searing blue eyes, Bucky looks down at the painting, at the beautiful, careful strokes Steve made on the canvas. The man in the field of stars. He runs his fingers over the frame as he turns and carries it into his apartment. Later, once he's alone, he'll hang it on his bedroom wall, the last thing he sees at night, and the first thing in the morning. A small piece of Steve to keep with him, the only piece he'll ever have. But for now, he rests it against the side of the couch and stares down at it for a long moment before finally returning to the door. 

It's a sweet gesture, although a confusing one. An apology painting? Maybe if they made _sorry I hurt you while I was in rut_ cards, he'd be getting one of those instead. But whatever the reason for the gift, Bucky is glad to have it, even if he doesn't deserve it.

"Thank you, Steve. I love it."

"I've wanted to give it to you since the day you brought me pancakes, but I thought I should wait. I wasn't sure giving you a personal gift while seeing you in a professional capacity was the proper thing to do."

Bucky nods, the heat in his cheeks spreading down his neck. "Makes sense."

Steve's face twists and he opens his mouth before snapping it closed again and pulling a deep breath through his nose, visibly resetting. "When I got back, and you weren't in bed, I could smell your soured scent. I knew you were upset, so I came down here. I knocked on your door, but you didn't answer. And then I remembered what you said about it not meaning anything, scratching an itch, and I figured the distress must have been regret, and if you wanted anything more, you would have opened the door."

Bucky freezes as his mind unspools rapidly, and he scours his memory of that morning for a knock on his door. He comes up empty. The only time he hadn't been curled up on his couch moping was when... _oh._ When he had been in the shower. He grimaces. The universe couldn't be that cruel, could it?

"But then what you said at the clinic made no sense, because you're wrong. That painting, I made it for you… it _is_ you. I saw you on the fire escape the night I moved in. I did notice you, Bucky. I've been noticing you — your baking, your impromptu midnight karaoke sessions, the way you always help old Ms. Phillips with her groceries. But you weren't like the other omegas—" Bucky wraps his arms around himself and presses his lips into a tight seam, but Steve shakes his head "—no, I mean that as a good thing. You didn't come sniffing around, propositioning me, treating me like I was—" He huffs out a heavy sigh. "You were just different. Indifferent, independent, intriguing. I wanted to ask you out, but I, ah, I was worried you'd say no." Steve's lips curve up. "In my head, if I didn't ask, you couldn't say no, and that meant there was still a chance," he laughs softly. "But then, when you called the clinic for an appointment, I realized I'd lost my chance. I couldn't date a patient."

Bucky's heart is beating against his ribs hard and fast, every word making it feel like it's going to burst through his chest. But he frowns, a small part of him resisting, unwilling to accept Steve's assertions. If something seems too good to be true... "But you slept with Darcy." 

"Why would you think I slept with Darcy?"

Steve stares at him blankly, and Bucky stops bouncing on his toes, lifting one foot to rub over the other, suddenly feeling a bit unsure... but the law of averages dictates he can't be wrong about _everything._ "You left with her that night I introduced you, and the next morning you were doing the walk of shame. I caught you as you were coming home, remember?"

"Bucky, I didn't spend the night with Darcy. I'm not interested in her in that way at all."

"But you didn't stay in your apartment. So if you weren't with her, where were you?" Suspicion twists itself through Bucky's mind as Steve hesitates. "You're hiding something."

"I didn't spend the night inside my apartment; I spent it outside of yours."

"What?" Suddenly, the overpowering alpha scent when he'd stepped out his door that morning makes sense. He'd assumed at the time it was from where Steve had been standing at the top of the stairs, but now... "Why?"

"Because I needed to make sure you were safe. You didn't want to stay with me, but I couldn't bear the thought of someone taking advantage of you, of hurting you."

Bucky bristles, his innate defensiveness kicking in immediately. "I can look after myself."

Steve throws up his hands and snorts derisively. "Bucky, you don't even lock your door."

"I do so... sometimes. When I remember," Bucky mumbles softly. _  
_

“I haven't slept with another patient. I’ve never even been tempted. The things we did at the clinic, that’s never... I’ve never done anything like that before. I need you to know that. But when you were on the table, asking me to help you... after dreaming about you for so long, it just broke me. You shattered every wall I put up, they just crumbled under my feelings for you.” Steve shuffles on the spot, awkwardly, looking as if he wants to turn and flee from his confession.  
  
"I know I probably overstepped again, staying outside your door that night. I'm not perfect; I tend to let my heart get me into trouble my head has to get me out of later. And after everything that's happened, the things I said and did... I don't know if I deserve a second chance, but I'm being selfish again, and I'm asking for one." Steve holds out his hand. "May I take you to breakfast? I would very much love a fresh start if you're willing to give me one."

Bucky's heart feels like it's swelling enough to fill his throat, and for a long minute, all he can do is stare mutely at Steve's hand, held open, waiting for his. But what Steve has asked for isn't what Bucky wants. He shakes his head slowly. "I don't want a fresh start with you."

"Oh." Steve's hand trembles slightly and starts falling away, but Bucky slips his into the larger one and keeps it aloft.

"I want to _continue_ what we have. I don't want to pretend the other night didn't happen. That night was incredible; I've never felt so..." Bucky's mind floods with ways to finish his sentence: desired, cherished, wanted, adored. Knowing he's capable of driving Steve mad with lust, of reducing him to an instinct-driven, hulking mass of pure need, had made Bucky feel _powerful._

"And you didn't hurt me, not really, not in any way that counts. But I'm not the perfect, cookie-cutter omega. I won't come when called and fall to my knees because someone wants me to. I need you to know that what happened that night, that's not how — I don't usually submit, not like that. You showed me I could if I wanted to, but if you want an omega who will be like that all the time…"

"I don't," Steve interrupts. "I'm not usually so... but none of that matters. I want you, just as you are. You're _not_ a cookie-cutter anything, it's one of the things I love about you."

The truth shining from Steve's eyes and flooding his voice burns away the last wisps of Bucky's fear and doubt. _Steve wants him._ This whole time he'd been guessing at what Steve was thinking, making assumptions, he'd had everything so completely back-to-front... and he'd almost lost _everything_ because of it. 

"Okay," Bucky whispers.

"Okay, what? What are you saying, exactly?" Steve's smile is fleeting and unsure. "Spell it out for me, so I know we're on the same page, good or bad. The last misunderstanding nearly killed me."

"I'm saying that I've never felt this with anyone. I trust you. That night, I know you were just taking what you needed, but you gave me what I needed, too. More than just, umm..." Bucky rubs a hand over his neck and cocks his head to the side, giving Steve a knowing look. "But that’s not the only thing I need. I want more than that. I want all of you, I want everything. I want to spend lazy days curled up watching you paint, and have you taste test my baking. I want to introduce you to my friends and meet yours. I want a place in your life and to fit you into mine. And I want to be with you, just you. I want to be the one, the _only_ one, giving you... giving m-my alpha what he needs."

"Your alpha?" The low rumble of Steve's voice has Bucky's toes curling in the carpet.

Bucky presses his teeth into his lower lip and looks up at Steve through his lashes, nodding slowly.

"I like the sound of that."

Warmth rolls through Bucky as he squeezes the hand holding his and tugs forward, and Steve follows the silent invitation, stepping into the apartment and toeing the door closed behind him. 

"But you're not taking me out for breakfast. I don't want to share your orgasmic pancake-face with total strangers," Bucky states, nodding toward the kitchen. "Besides, I'm making pancakes myself, this time with syrup and whipped cream."

A slow smile blooms over Steve's lips. "So that's what this is," he murmurs before leaning down to lick a stripe up Bucky's neck. The flash of white on his tongue disappears with a thick swallow. "Not as sweet as you."

"Uhh, you keep doing that, and breakfast is going to take a lot longer to make," Bucky grinds out, his cock starting to pay attention to the attention Steve is lavishing on him.

Steve wraps his arms around Bucky's waist, pulling him close. "How long does it take to make pancakes?" 

"Um, t-ten minutes," Bucky stammers, melting into the embrace.

"Too long," Steve whispers, staring down at him, dark desire eclipsing bright blue. "You know how much I love your cooking, but right now, I have a different kind of sugar craving. All I want this morning is my perfectly sweet omega wrapped around me and in my arms. What do you say, sweetheart? Wanna play doctor with me?"

Bucky wraps his arms around Steve's neck as he's lifted in strong arms and cradled against the familiar broad chest. He sighs happily and nuzzles at the gland behind Steve's ear, the scent filling his lungs and overflowing, shooting a thrill of possessiveness through him. _Mine._ He nips at a tender earlobe, smiling at the low growl and quickening pace of bare feet as Steve carries him into the bedroom.

"That depends, Doctor. I have a problem here—" Bucky grips Steve's hand and urges it up, over the back of his thigh until it's resting against his ass "—it's so wet and achy whenever my alpha is near me, and I just don't know how to make it go away. What would you prescribe?"

"Me. _Only_ me from now on, Bucky," Steve growls, rubbing him through his pajama pants. "I'll give you everything you need, sugar. Always."

Bucky gasps and presses back into the touch, feeling his body react, already slick and opening for Steve. For his alpha. "Sounds perfect," he whispers into Steve's mouth before _finally_ claiming those beautiful lips he's been dreaming of for so long, moaning softly as the taste of _home_ dances over his tongue.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Ferret, you know what you did, thank you. <3 <3 <3
> 
> ii. This is the part where I say thank youuuuuuu to everyone who came along for this insane ride, who kudos'd and commented and hung out in the comments replying to mine and other people's comments, and who pelted plot bunnies at me, and made me think up answers to plot questions I hadn't even considered! <3
> 
> iii. A few people are sad Bucky isn't pregnant, but please don't be! He will be! There is a sequel already in the works with pregnant Bucky. I think it is going to end up being kink-heavy, but I'll warn for them and I'm going to try and see if I can add little portkeys so you can skip the kinks that you may be allergic to so you can continue on with the story if you so wish.
> 
> iv. I've put this in a series (ignore the name, it's probably going to be changed later, but I needed something there so I could upload this chapter) if you're interested in the continuing adventures of Knot Boy, M.D. and his sweet lil Sugar Cookie, feel free to subscribe. :)
> 
> v. And..... drumroll.... impromptu poll time! Which would you prefer to read first: Steve's POV of this story, or the pregnant Bucky sequel? Just, y'know, curious minds...


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